


Liar

by Nightfall24



Series: Strange Desire [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Anal Sex, Come Eating, Come Marking, Dark Sherlock, Depression, Drowning, Drugged Sex, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Hand Jobs, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Manipulative Sherlock, Mental Coercion, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Minor Character Death, Mycroft's Meddling, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, Obsessive Behavior, Oral Sex, Poor John, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sherlock, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Teen John, Teen John Watson, Threesome - F/M/M, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-19 10:20:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1465810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightfall24/pseuds/Nightfall24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after 'I'm Not Calling You a Liar," John is now nineteen and trying to move on with his life after the traumatic events of his childhood. Ignoring his nightmares and trying to let go of his past, John is in a relationship with Mary now and on his way to becoming a Doctor. Sometimes though, the past doesn't want to let go of its most precious possession.</p><p>This is part three of the 'Strange Desire' series. Both 'Lies' and 'I'm Not Calling You a Liar' should be read before this one. However, I will be putting in flashbacks and a few redundancies for those of you who would prefer not to read the prequels due to the underage warning and would still like to give part three a go. It might be a bit confusing at first but this one is definitely possible to read on it's own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Little Lion Man

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back everyone and thank you for your patience. I know I left a bit of a cliffhanger at the end of part two so my apologies for making y'all wait. 
> 
> I'm not exactly sure where part three is going yet or how violent, sexual, or psychologically dark it is going to be and you're all aware of how fickle my mind is during writing(: Although John is no longer a minor, this fic is still possibly triggering and it has never been my intention to upset anyone. So PLEASE heed the tags and always read the notes for warnings.
> 
> Thank you all for your amazing support and I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1 – Little Lion Man

  **Present Day – Five years after John's attempted suicide**

John opened his eyes slowly, sleep still clinging to him as he rolled onto his back with a wide yawn. The bedroom was still dark, save for a small night light glowing through the slightly ajar door leading to the bathroom. It was nighttime, he realized, looking over at the bright red numbers on the clock indicating it was only two in the morning. _Well, at least I didn’t wake up screaming again,_ John mused, thinking about how scared Mary had been when he flailed so much in the throes of a nightmare that he’d ended up on the floor with a severely bruised bum.

It had upset her more than him, or at least it appeared that way when she threatened to call his mum if he didn’t go back to see Dr. Thompson again. Sadly, it had been an ongoing fight between them after he walked out of a session a year ago with his fourth psychiatrist when she told him that writing a blog would help him with his nightmares. _What a load of piss that had been._ Mary had told him to stop being so defensive all the time and maybe if he told someone what happened in his nightmares he might feel better. They didn’t talk for two days after that and then had amazing make up sex to restart the timer until he inevitably had another ‘episode,’ as Dr. Thompson liked to call it, and the whole fight would start over again. _Wash. Rinse. Repeat._  

_This is what my life has become._ John thought to himself as he watched the ceiling fan blades waft through the air, creating moving shadows along the walls and a slight draft through the room. A _giant ceiling fan that just keeps going around and around and around, pushing air over and over and over again._ “But the sex is great,” John whispered to himself, chuckling a bit to push those thoughts that would never sow anything but depression and most likely more nightmares.

He shoved a hand over his mouth to muffle the giggles as to not wake up his girlfriend sleeping next to him. However, when he looked over to her side of the bed to see if he was going to be in trouble, she wasn’t there. _A couple of insomniacs, that’s what we are._ John laughed again, at what, he didn’t know, but he had always done it, as long as he could remember. His mother would get mad at him, saying it was inappropriate, his peers at school would only stare at him or leave the table, but Mary just laughed right along with him, taking it for what it was, which according to Dr. Morris, his second therapist, was a coping and defense mechanism to hide what he was truly feeling. John only went to him for one more session so he could tell Mary he gave the ‘know-it-all-self-righteous-bastard’ the benefit of the doubt.

“Mary?” he called, his voice a slight whisper but loud enough to echo through their small flat. When no answer came, John checked the time again and then rolled out of the bed and onto his feet. Most likely she had woken up to make some tea and then fallen asleep on the couch watching crap telly. It wouldn’t be the first time and John was happy because he knew it wouldn’t be the last time he got to carry her back to bed. Even though he joked about how funny she looked in her sleep, what with her hair matted to her face on one side while the other shot straight out and even the slight puffs and snores that were nowhere near lady like, made Johns’ heart flutter.

For all the fights and argument between them over the two years they’d been together, John knew she’d saved him and he’d saved her. The cute blonde barista who, by his second day visiting the coffee shop, had the man’s order of dark Italian roast with hazelnut memorized and then took it upon herself to introduce him to all different types of drinks each time he would come in, which was every single morning. Each day, no matter how long the queue was, Mary would wave him over and give John the choice of the day until he found his absolute favorite of hot chocolate with cinnamon and some kind of peanut extract mixed in.  

She was wonderful and John knew how lucky he was to find someone who didn’t mind his nightmares or his inability to trust and open up. Mary was one of the few people in the world who understood why he laughed for no reason at all or why sometimes his hand would tremble when they went to bed. She would let John hold onto her waist tight when the room became too quiet and there were no more distractions because she knew that’s when the demons would come out and feast on his mind. She understood and rarely asked why, which was all John wanted and needed.  

“Mary?” he called again, opening the bedroom door and walking slowly down the wooden hallway until he heard a slight thud come from the kitchen. _Oh God, calm down John, just stay calm and find Mary. No one’s broken in, she probably just dropped the remote on the floor, yeah?_ John slowly made his way down the hall, peeking around the corner only to find the living room dark and empty. _Jesus, oh shite, okay, I need to get a gun or-or a knife or something._ However, before he could sneak back to their room to grab the gun he kept in the sock drawer, a loud gasp followed by another thud came from the kitchen. _He’s here, he’s here, oh God Moriarty found me. I knew it and now I’ve killed Mary too!_

Without thinking, John ran into the kitchen and flipped on the lights to illuminate the monster he’d faced so many years ago. Honestly, he could barely remember that face, which had hovered above him the day he shot Moriarty. Now all he could remember, or at least what showed up in his dreams, were the man’s hard cock pressing into his stomach, sharp teeth below black eyes, warm drool falling onto his face, and the sound of a belt being undone. Sometimes, in his nightmares, Moriarty would rape him, shoving his head into the pillow as he screamed for Sherlock to save him. Then in others, the detective would save him and then John missed and shot the detective instead of Moriarty. John didn’t know which nightmare was worse, him shooting Sherlock or being raped, but both made him scream and thrash in his bead until his throat was raw and his fists where bruised.

John’s eyes grew wide when the lights turned on, he was wrong. It wasn’t a thief who stood over Mary’s mutilated body, nor was it Jim Moriarty who was kneeling in a pool of dark crimson on the floor. “S-Sherlock?” He stuttered, his voice sounding higher than normal causing the man to look down at his hands and realize he had turned into that scared fourteen year old boy watching helplessly as Sherlock plunged the knife back into Mary’s chest.

Then, within a blink of an eye the body under the bloody man was no longer the blond woman who introduced him to cinnamon hot chocolate…it was him. The boy shouted, his voice cracking, as Sherlock plunged the knife again and again into the heart of John’s nineteen year old body. Blood pooled out of his mouth after every stab as his own blue eyes stared back at him, lifeless. “Why?! Sherlock, why?! The boy shouted again, placing his hand over his chest only to see it stained red with his own blood.

“Because I love you, John,” was all the man said, his deep smooth voice fodder for every demon John had shoved into the well he’d dug after being pulled away from the bridge by Mycroft. The stone walls had become higher and slicker with moss over the years, impossible for anything to escape until that fucking voice threw a rope ladder over the edge. Bright silver eyes bore into him as John fell into the well, hitting the water with a splash. He was being pulled deeper down, water filling his lungs when he screamed for help. The last thing John saw before complete darkness were two silver slits staring down at him.

“John! John!” He heard his name echoing through the water, which surrounded him, calling to him. “John, for fucks sake, John, please!” _Mary?_

John gasped for breath, realizing it was air that filled his lungs instead of water. “Sherlock!” he shouted and was met with a loud thud and a sharp pain in his shoulder.

“John, oh God,” Mary’s voice was louder now and John felt himself shivering as his body was embraced by something warm. He opened his eyes to see familiar blue green ones staring back at him, worry and panic evident in their gaze. “It’s me, you’re alright, love. You’re alright,” she said, pulling the shaking man into a tight hug as they both sat sprawled out on the hard wood floor.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he couldn’t stop the words as they poured from his lips. Words which came from somewhere so deep and dark inside him that John himself never set foot, a place he had created out of self-preservation, the place that made him need to laugh so he wouldn’t breakdown. It had never existed with in him until it did, until late at night when all he could hear was his own heartbeat, John felt the cob webs stir and the voices whisper thoughts he swore he would never think of again.  

“Shhh, it’s alright, it was just a nightmare, you’re fine,” the soft words kept coming, calming the shaking and sweaty young man who held onto the woman next to him for dear life. It wasn’t enough though, it would never be enough, and John knew this, had accepted it five years ago when his mother tried to comfort him during one of his ‘episodes.’ There was no chest, no embrace, no kiss, no touch, no breath, and no voice that would truly heal and calm his plaque infested brain.

Yes, he had accepted that a long time ago, had to, was more accurate because it was a lot harder to just move on when everyone was always asking him if he was okay, or giving him sympathetic looks when he just felt like being alone. In the end, John had found out that acting okay was the same as being okay when it came to getting everyone off his back. Once he’d convinced his mum, professors, and friends he was fine, things seemed to go back to normal and normal was good, easy. He had passed all his tests and was on track to start his journey of becoming a Doctor and he’d met Mary, who was there for him and someone that he could be there for. Yes, if all he had to worry about were some stupid nightmares, John thought, then he could handle that just fine on his own.

“I’m okay,” he whispered more to himself than Mary, his voice now calm as he tried desperately to get the image of Sherlock covered in blood out of his head. He was fine, he had to be fine.   


	2. I Will Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV directly after chapter one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!
> 
> This is the last chapter chapter before shit hits the fan, so enjoy the semi-peacefulness while it lasts. Also, I do want to reiterate that this chapter is completely from Sherlock's POV, so even though he's interpreting what peoples actions mean, he might not be correct in his deductions...because he's mentally ill. The same goes for the John chapters, too, even though he's a bit more stable. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy(:

Chapter 2 – I Will Wait

Sherlock sat quietly in his chair, fingers propped under his chin as he stared intently at the laptop screen before him. He had finally composed himself, was serene even, now that the abhorrent sound of another’s name leaving his John’s lips had been shoved down into one of the locked doors of his mind palace. However, the six bullet holes in the wall, a flipped over chair, and a mixture of papers and broken glass strewn across the carpet were evidence of the deadly hurricane, which blew mercilessly throughout 221B. The waters had finally calmed, deceptively so, for the silver eyes staring at a picture of John and that woman, _that succubus,_ hid the black tar brimming over the edge and the brilliant plans that would once and for all make John his, sating his mind forever.

After venting his frustrations, Sherlock had come to the conclusion, t _he only conclusion really,_ that he needed to break John again before his boy would see the error in his ways and come running back home. What was the best way to break him though was the question, especially now as John seemed to think he was old enough to make his own decisions. His boy had changed, that much was obvious, and whether from age or perhaps he was only hiding his true feelings, it was still unacceptable.

“Hmm, but how to do it?” Sherlock asked himself, examining the Morstan files for the fifth time. He could kill his mother, or perhaps Mike Stamford…but no, the problem still remained of whose shoulder John would cry on, Sherlock’s or Mary’s. The easiest option, and most painless for the majority of those involved would be to kill Mary and make it look like an accident. John would come running back to Sherlock, who would offer a shoulder to cry on, Mary wouldn’t have to suffer the loss of John because she would be dead, _obvious,_ and Mary’s two sisters would enjoy their father’s attention now that the favorite daughter was out of the picture. Five happy people happy versus the alternative of one person who was most likely moderately content with the current situation, which was Mary. It was clear just from the pictures on Facebook that his John was hurting quietly and it went without saying that Sherlock was unhappy, practically livid, without the boy by his side. _These odds are not looking well for you at all, are they Miss Morstan?_  

The only potential problem was Mycroft, who would be on him faster than free cake Wednesdays at that bakery around the corner if Mary wound up dead. However, numbers were king when it came to his older brother and with a ratio of five to one, there was no way Mycroft wouldn’t agree with him. Mary had to die. It was the only way to break this older, harder John enough for Sherlock to slip through the cracks into the wounded center of that small fourteen year old boy. The detective would be able to nest inside John again, curling around his heart, stroking his mind gently as they floated together. Yes, this was a sound plan but for now, it was time to whet his appetite, or perhaps sample the fine wine of John’s lips before the entrée was served. After all, it would do both of them some good to provide their touch starved bodies with some much needed nourishment.

Sherlock picked up his phone, which he had already used to hack into Mycroft’s surveillance on John, noting the two were walking into a coffee shop only a ten minute jog from Baker Street. _You can’t help yourself, can you John? Deep down you want to be near Baker Street, your home._ In one swift move, the detective pulled on his coat and strode out the door.

As Sherlock walked to the café, he solidified fifty three scenarios of how he was going to have Mary killed. It was delicate business, murder, especially when it was used as a tool to affect a third party. It was important to break John, not crush him beyond repair. After all, what use would he be if that kindness, strong will, and love was ripped out of his beautiful heart? Her death had to be traumatic with the grief lasting long enough for John to let himself become dependent on Sherlock again. _Hmmm, tedious business indeed._

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was standing outside the front window of the shop, peering in only to feel the bile rise in his throat. John and Mary were holding hands across the table, laughing and smiling as if all they needed was each other. _You can’t have him! He’s mine!_ Sherlock actually growled at the scene inside the café, earning a few strange glances from passersby. In that moment, Sherlock questioned his ability to wait, to play the patient game. The black tar, which only John could get rid of rose up like a tidal wave banging against the doors of his sanity. He needed this, he needed John before it was too late, before the last candle went out inside his mind and he was left in total darkness, spreading destruction to anyone and everyone.

“Sherlock?!” a voice called to him and only then did he realize he’d been standing on the pavement, shaking and muttering to himself for God knows how long. “It is you, isn’t it?” Sherlock turned to see John, his John, standing outside the entrance, his smile warm as it always had been. Before the detective could respond, the blonde teenager took two long steps over to him and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s torso. That one touch was like steel hitting flint, a match striking friction, causing the most magnificent spark and igniting the lights within the man’s mind.

Without hesitation, Sherlock wrapped his arms around the boy’s wider frame, feeling the newly formed muscles in John’s back and chest. John’s head came up to his shoulders now, perfect to pull the boy’s head down to rest there. _After all these years, my John, we still fit together perfectly._ They continued their embrace for a long while, John’s breathing had slowed but the tension in the young man’s body told Sherlock there was much turmoil and unspoken thoughts inside him. There would be plenty of time for that though, the rest of their lives in fact, because once Sherlock felt that familiar lush green grass under his feet again, there was no way in Hell he was going back to the dead ground he used to live on before John. “I’m here, John,” Sherlock whispered into the soft blonde hair.

“I didn’t think you would come back,” John pulled away from him as Sherlock reluctantly let him go, _for now._ “Wait, how are you back? Mycroft said-“

“Good behavior,” Sherlock offered, testing the waters to see how much John’s thought process and trust had changed over the five years. 

“Oh,” was all he said, his brow furrowing slightly, confusion written on his face but only a slight hint of doubt, which was good. Sherlock could work with that.

“Who is this?” he changed the subject quickly, not giving John the time to think too hard about the lie he was just told. Although his appearance had changed, or rather expanded from the tiny frame of his younger self, John still thought too much, confusing and hurting himself in the process. Sherlock pointed at Mary, who was standing behind John now, a confused but happy smile on her face.

“Ha, yes,” John laughed, music to the older man’s ears, “this is Mary. My…ummm, my erm-“ the boy was panicking slightly, standing between the man he loved and the woman he was sleeping with. _Ah, yes, you are feeling guilty aren’t you, John? Don’t worry love, I’m here now and we can put all this nastiness behind us._ Sherlock only smiled kindly at the woman, letting John work out what he wanted to say and knowing in the end, he would be able to use the boy’s guilt against him. “My girlfriend, Mary,” he finally got out, going over and putting his arm around her waist. _A comforting gesture, hmmm, not enough though. I think you’ve made her a bit angry, John._

“It’s nice to meet you, Mary. I’m Sherlock Holmes. My apologies for interrupting your coffee break,” he made his tone light and friendly. It was a funny, yet powerful thing, guilt. Sherlock knew there was already a small seed of remorse inside John’s mind and the best way to water it, making it grow until it consumed the boy’s thoughts night and day, was to simply be friendly to his accomplice, like everything was okay. However, if Sherlock would’ve shouted and raged, asking why John was with someone else, then the boy would throw up his defenses to protect himself and Mary. Yes, kindness was always the best tactic for a snake to sneak around to the flank before attacking.

“You’re Sherlock, ‘the’ Sherlock?” She looked at John for conformation and when he nodded, her eyes became wide and a smile spread along her features. “Wow, um, it’s nice to finally meet you. John’s told me a bit about you, a detective right?” _Ah keeping secrets from her, too, John? Tsk tsk._

“Yes, John and I have a lot of history together,” Sherlock smiled, catching John’s eyes. Strangely, something shifted in John’s features that the detective couldn’t quite make out. It was almost as if a wall shot up, hiding something buried deep within the boy’s mind. _You know I don’t like it when you hid things from me, John._ No matter, it was obvious the conversation was becoming uncomfortable for him, so Sherlock, as always, took care of things. “Actually, I am on a case right now and have to run. I only stopped when I saw a ghost of a face in the window,” Sherlock smiled again at John, pushing down the urge to caress the soft cheek. “I would love to catch up with you two though, perhaps tonight at The Crown and Anchor, say around six?”

John looked down, biting his lip slightly as he kicked at a loose pebble on the pavement. _Still the same shy little John, aren’t you?_ Before the boy could answer though, Mary piped in. “Yes, that sounds lovely, doesn’t it John?” She asked John who only nodded, still looking at the ground and for some reason, Sherlock saw the boy growing paler as the conversation went on. “I’d love to hear some embarrassing stories of when he was a kid. He won’t let me anywhere near his mum, so I-“

“Mary,” John snapped, his gaze finally shooting up from the ground to glare at her. _Oh my, not such a smooth relationship. Shame._ “Sherlock, I-I don’t know if…”

“Please, John,” Sherlock frowned, confused by his boy’s hesitation but then realized it was because of that irritating third wheel. It must be hard for the poor kid, trying to give his attention to both Sherlock and Mary, splitting himself in half to try and please everyone. _Oh John, you haven’t learned anything while I was away, have you?_ “Just a drink.”

“Yeah, we haven’t been out in ages, John,” Mary smiled, nudging him slightly in the ribs. It was a bit sad when someone was digging their own grave but it made everything a lot easier for the undertaker at least.

“Alright, yeah, sounds good,” John sighed, still easily swayed by the pleading of others.

“Wonderful, I shall see you both at six, then,” Sherlock nodded and strode back to Baker Street, a new liveliness in his step.

As soon as he made it back to his flat, Sherlock went straight to the lab in his kitchen. The homemade drugs he’d crafted for their reunion was complete. Mary’s was easy, a basic tranquilizer that would knock her unconscious for hours until she woke up with a fuzzy recollection of prior events. John’s however, was a bit trickier but with a few ingredients such as flunitrazepam and ketamine, the effects should make his boy groggy but still lucid enough to enjoy himself. Although it was disappointing that the drug would also ensure John wouldn’t remember the night, but if he ruined the long term plan now by getting greedy, John would be even harder to get back. Sherlock know, it was best to play it safe for now and enjoy the moment for what it was.

Yes, Sherlock would have a small taste tonight, only providing a glimpse of what was to come after he fully claimed his John. After all, good things come to those who wait and Sherlock would wait for his beautiful little lamb to walk into the cave and curl up next to the wolf, begging to be devoured.      


	3. Ghosts that We Knew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's POV after his encounter with Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always laughed when authors said they were attacked by plot bunnies but now I believe I have fallen victim. However, I think mine are more like giant plot lampreys (google it if you want nightmares). So, I really did plan on having the 'pub talk' in this chapter but things kinda got away from me...as they tend to do more often than not. I hope you don't mind and remember, everything is not as it seems(;
> 
> Also, I'd like to thank QuinnCliff for letting me throw a few lampreys at her to see how they bounced off. She took it like a champ, so thanks for talking plots with me Miss QuinnCliff, it was invaluable(:
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy and thanks for all the support!

Chapter 3 – Ghosts That We Knew

It was getting harder to breathe, the room was getting smaller and the air felt like it was being sucked right from John’s lungs. He’d barely made it back to their flat before the well housing every monstrous being inside John’s brain erupted like a geyser, splattering the putrid liquid across his mind. He could feel it, John would swear every minute of every day that he could feel it when those memories poured back into his mind and dripped down his body in a cascade of tainted remembrance.

The panicked man hadn’t even realized he was back in their flat again until he felt himself being placed on a soft couch and something warm envelope him. However, it still didn’t add any oxygen to lungs or cork the oozing gaping wound in his mind. _Why is he back?_ Was all John could ask himself over and over again, his voice sounding dull as it echoed through his ears. Then, another voice shouted at him but it wasn’t the voice he wanted.

“John? John, please you’re scaring me. Snap out of it!” the voice was saying but it wasn’t the timbre, which made his spine vibrate or pulled the strings attached to his limbs. ‘ _My voice is the only one you want, isn’t it John_? _Say it.’_ Sherlock’s voice came from somewhere far inside his mind, in the deepest part of his subconscious possible was the reminder of what was pounded, no pun intended, into him so long ago. “That’s it, I’m calling Dr. Thompson,” this voice was not in his head, or at least John didn’t think so because to be perfectly honest, he wasn’t even sure if the man he saw today at the coffee shop was real.

“NO!” John shouted, snapping out of his…whatever it was and looking up to see Mary, who looked more panic than he’d ever seen.

“John,” she said, her face contorting into one of pity as she walked back over and put her arms around him. “I’m not having any more of this, ‘I don’t need help ‘cause I don’t have a problem’ bullocks, do you hear me?” She pressed her face against the side of his head, holding him tighter. “You are either going to talk to me or a Therapist, no more arguments and no more telling them to ‘fuck off.’” She laughed slightly, rubbing a hand over his cheek and John could feel the world, the present world, coming back to him. Her soft hand adding weights to his feet, pulling him back down to the ground; however, he always seemed to hover just above the dirt, the stones not heavy enough for him to plant his feet and gain traction.

“I-I’m f-“

“You are bloody well not fine, John! You didn’t see your face just now. Hell, I don’t know where you went after we met that Sherlock character but you weren’t here with me. Now, quit being a stubborn arse and call Dr. Thompson or I will!” She grabbed his mobile out of his jean pocket and held it out, her face as stern as her tone. _God I don’t want to, I really really don’t want to. None of this was supposed to happen! Sherlock wasn’t supposed to come looking for me again. Hell, he didn’t even respond to all the letters I sent him! He didn’t want me anymore and now…fuck, I need to call Mycroft._

“I-I’ll call someone, a friend…well, not really a friend but someone I knew a long time ago who might be able to help me straighten out my head a bit.” John told her, taking the phone in his hand. It felt heavier than normal, which made about as much sense as this whole fucking day did.

“You’re not just going to call Papa Johns or that weird Chinese restaurant then tell me you talked to someone, are you?” Mary smiled at him but John could tell her question was serious because yes, that’s exactly something he would do to get people off his back. _Hell, it’s worked before._

“Tempting,” John let out what was supposed to be a laugh but sounded more like a wounded animal, “but no, it’s Sherlock’s brother. Maybe he can shed a bit of light on why Sherlock’s back in London.”

She nodded, placing a kiss on John’s cheek and then stood up with her hands on her hips. “This Sherlock did a number on you, huh?” _You have no fucking idea._ John kept her gaze, or at least appeared to keep her gaze when in reality it was a trick he learned a long time ago. If he looked at a person’s eyebrows it still gave the illusion of sincere eye contact, making it easier to fool and, thankfully, another way to get people off his back. “Alright, well, let me know if you change your mind and want to go tonight, yeah. If not I can make some breakfast for dinner,” she smiled again but John still felt far away, like he was being dragged back into some massive cave void of any hold to grab onto.

“Mary?”

“Hmm?” She turned to look at him.

“I love you,” John said. At some level he did, he really did love her and she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. The other part of his mind though, knew he didn’t, or maybe he shouldn’t, again, John didn’t know the difference between his thoughts and the echoes of ghosts in his head. In that moment though, he meant it.

“I love you too, John,” she blew him a kiss and then walked into the kitchen.

John held the phone in his hand, turning it around over and over again as he walked into their room and shut the door behind him. He still remembered the number, after about a year and half of avoiding any of Mycroft’s calls, John still remembered the number like his own birthday. He took a deep sigh, flopped onto the bed, put the call on speaker, and placed the ringing phone on his chest as he watched the twirling ceiling fan. After only ten seconds, a familiar voice picked up.

“John,” Mycroft greeted and John thought it strange the man still had his number to know it was him calling.

“M-Mycroft…umm, how are you?” he asked, smacking his head hard with the hand that wasn’t keeping the mobile from falling of his chest. _A year and a half and you say ‘how are you?’ really good start, John._

“I’m as well as can be expected but I must confess I am more curious as to how you have been since our last conversation. I was afraid you had changed your number. My assistant claims she could not get a hold of you.” John furrowed his brow, wondering if the man was only messing with him. After all, it was obvious Mycroft had the resources to tell if John had switched phones. How far his resources reached though, well, that remained to be seen.

“I’m…erm, I was fine but…did you know that-that he’s back?” Why he couldn’t say…’his’ name, John had no clue but saying ‘he’ and ‘him’ was much easier, so the teenager stuck with it, grasping at whatever little straws of sanity he could find.

“I am aware of that, yes, have you seen him yet?”

“Why didn’t you warn me, Mycroft?!” John shouted, sitting up and turning the phone off speaker, pressing it hard against his ear.

“Sherlock wanted to surprise you, John. I must admit I was worried the revelation would have a sour effect but he insisted. My apologies.”

This didn’t make any sense, t _his doesn’t make any fucking sense!_ “You told me they put another five years on his sentence because of bad behavior and now! Bloody hell I thought I was going mad seeing him at that coffee shop! What the fuck happened? Why now, why?” John shouted into the phone, fighting off the urge to throw it across the room.

“Again, my sincerest apologies, John. That’s actually why I was trying to get into contact with you over the past year and a half, which you apparently decided to avoid my calls.”

“Well excuse me all to Hell if I didn’t want to talk to the brother of the man who said he loved me and then wouldn’t even return my letters to him while he was in jail! In bloody jail, where he had nothing to do and couldn’t even be bothered to write me back, a fourteen year old boy, Mycroft! Do you even know how many letters I wrote him? Now, NOW, he wants to come back and invite my girlfriend and me to a pub for some FUCKING DRINKS!” John shouted, clutching at his head as the blood rushing there made it throb painfully. 

“John, is someone there with you?” Mycroft asked.

“What does that matter?! Stop avoiding my questions with your stupid fucking mind games!”

“Your safety has always been my number one priority, John, you know that. I want to make sure you are not alone and I think you know why.”

_What does that mean? Oh, oh that fucker thinks I’m going to try and kill myself again, doesn’t he? God, maybe that would be best, hell, everything would be a lot better now if I would’ve done it five years ago._ “John? John, I’m sending someone over to be with you, okay. Just calm down.”

“No, no, Mary’s here with me…I-I’m fine, I just need-“ John trailed off, having no idea what he really needed or wanted. For five years he hadn’t been able to answer that question so for five years he never asked. “Why did he come back for me when he never once tried to make contact while he was in jail? I gave you, what, at least fifty letters to give to him?”

“My brother was in a very bad place during those five years, John. You have to understand that, for his sake and yours. I’m sure it was agonizing just reading your letters, let alone respond to them.” _Agonizing for him? What about for me?!_ “As to why he’s out early, well, that was partly my doing but only in pointing out a flaw in the charges brought against him.”

“So what am I supposed to do now, huh? I’ve been through four therapists, taken at least ten different anti-anxiety, anti-depression, anti-everything pills to make myself stop thinking about him and now he just comes strolling back like…like everything is fine. For fuck’s sake, you should have seen him and Mary; they were like old pals making plans to go grab a pint!” John hadn’t realized he was pacing back and forth until he stubbed his toe on the foot of the bed. The pain felt good, the pain felt really good, exchanging the aching in his soul for something physical. “I can’t. I can’t. I just can’t, Mycroft-“

“John, it’s going to be alright. You are not a fourteen year old boy anymore, do you understand me? Perhaps,” there was a long pause on the other end of the phone, then a deep sigh, “perhaps this is a way for you to come to terms with what you have refused to look at for five years.”

“I have not-“

“John, please, you might tell that to your therapists but do not insult my intelligence. You have clearly used denial as a coping mechanism, which, I do not condone; however, with Mary in the picture I had hoped-“

“Don’t you dare bring her into this Mycroft! You have no idea what you’re talking about, so just leave Mary out of this,” John snapped, his anger increasing tenfold when Mycroft, the man who pulled him from the brink and then left him to fend for himself, tried to tell him about coping mechanisms. It was too much, his mind felt like it was splitting in half, one side was that little boy who wanted nothing more than for Sherlock to come back, while the other wanted to run as far away as possible. Neither was possible, not anymore.

Mycroft sighed again, “Alright, John. Will you two be meeting Sherlock tonight?”

“Yes,” John didn’t hesitate, it was time he moved on with his life, with Mary and now, with Sherlock back he had the perfect opportunity.

“Good, I’m sure Sherlock will be thrilled. Good day, John and you know my line is always open to you,” Mycroft said and before John could ask any more questions he heard the click and dial tone.

John squared his shoulders and walked back into the living room to find Mary staring at him, wide eyed. “Everything okay?” She asked, her voice betraying her worry and knowledge that everything was not okay.

“I’m Fine. We’re going to meet Sherlock tonight. I just need to take a shower and then we can head over to the pub, yeah?”

“Oh, umm, alright I’ll just go get ready then,” her brow furrowed, looking concerned but she didn’t ask anything else as she headed off to their room.

John stood there, letting the hot water run down his body, watching as it swirled a few times before sliding down the drain. When he saw light red and pink mixing into the water as it flowed from his body onto the white tub, John jumped back, blinking hard until the blood disappeared. _‘Come on, show me you love me John, show me,’_ the voice was right next to his ear. John swore he could even feel the hot breath and the hand splayed over his chest, even the slight rocking rhythm could be felt in his hips.  

The memories came back, reminding him why he hated taking showers but something inside him craved it, making him take two a day sometimes. A loud choked sob came from his throat, the sound of the water beating against the tub, the smell of fresh soap, even the sight of the water making its way to the drain brought back little sound bites or scenes from his past with Sherlock. His mind wasn’t safe, anywhere, anything seemed to remind him of Sherlock and it was driving him insane. _‘I’m inside you now, forever, John. I love you.’_  

Lying down in the tub as the water slowly turned from hot to warm to cold, John realized he was still that stupid little boy, not strong enough to handle things alone. He wanted Sherlock back and John knew that’s what would kill him in the end and perhaps…perhaps that was best. 


	4. Reminder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV directly after chapter three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Please read the updated tags. This chapter features drugged sex, which I consider to be non-consensual and basically rape. If this triggers you, I'm not sure how you've made it this far into the story but if you have, please be warned.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has commented or left kudos! I hope you enjoy this chapter, it took me a bit longer than I would have liked but I wanted to make sure it was done right(:
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Chapter 4 – Reminder

The pub was nice, rustic in fact, and Sherlock decided it was one of the less boring places he’d been too. Although, it could have been the excitement and anticipation placing rose colored glasses over his eyes, making the dull pub seem decent. Nevertheless, it was almost six o’clock and Sherlock was waiting impatiently in a chocolate colored leather booth, leaving the two chairs across the table available for John and Mary to sit in when they arrived. He slowly swirled his tumbler, watching the cucumber garnish drift in the mixture of Hendricks and club soda. With each move of his wrist, the cucumber changed directions, following his commands perfectly.  

Sherlock smiled, taking another sip as he thought about the two vials of liquid in his pocket. One for Mary, one for John, it was perfect and all he had to do was palm it into their drinks _and let the night begin. Oh, speak of the Devil._ The man’s smile broadened when the two blondes walked through the door, Mary waving at him while John only nodded then went straight to the bar. _That’s not good. Plan seven it is then._ “Mary, hello!” Sherlock called, standing up from his seat and quickly walking over, placing a quick peck to her cheek. _Women love that kind of stuff, yes, she’s blushing. Good, very good._

“Hi, sorry we’re a bit late, John takes longer in the shower than I do,” she laughed, looking back at John who was waiting for the barman. _I’m sure you have all kinds of memories in the shower, don’t you John? Never want to leave that steaming oasis, I see._ Sherlock chuckled along with her, although for entirely different reasons.

“What is he doing?” Sherlock asked, his voice laced in faux irritation, “this is my treat. Here, you go sit down and I’ll take care of the drinks.” Mary nodded, a kind smile still on her face, as she walked over to the table Sherlock had saved for them. Without a glance back, Sherlock walked up to the bar just as John was ordering their drinks.

“A Cabernet and a Guinness, please. Thank you,” John said, leaning on the bar and Sherlock couldn’t help but notice how the younger man’s spine curved into a beautiful arch begging to be caressed.

“Put that on my tab, please Garrett,” Sherlock placed his hands on the bar as well, already holding the two drugs securely between the creases of his palm. “So Guinness is your poison now, eh?” Sherlock asked, wanting to be absolutely sure which drink was John’s and which was Mary’s. _She does look a bit of a beer drinker but you never know._ John only nodded, providing confirmation and then Sherlock smiled at the boy. However, his joy wasn’t reciprocated; rather, John’s expression was the complete opposite of the detectives. “John, are you alright?”

“Am. I. All. Right.” John repeated, making each word a sharp staccato and jabbing his finger into the wooden surface as if he was playing a piano. “That’s a very good question, Sherlock. Such a good question in fact that you might have wanted to ask it within the last five years instead of waiting to invite me and my girlfriend out to a pub to see if I’m ‘alright.’” He made air quotations sarcastically, rolling his eyes as he did.

“John I-“ Sherlock started but was cut off by the loud clink of the drinks hitting the bar. Before John could even reach for them, the older man grabbed both, strategically placing his palm over the tops as he carried them to the table and dropped in the separate liquids, giving a slight swirl to avoid any odd tastes. “Here we are,” Sherlock set down the drinks, shoving the small vials up his blue dress shirt cuff. “A Cabernet for the lady and Guinness for the lad,” he smiled and sat down opposite John. “So Marry, you must tell me how you two met,” Sherlock started, ignoring John completely to let the boy stew on his own thoughts. After five years John hadn’t changed one bit and Sherlock knew just how to work him as easily as that thinly sliced cucumber in his Gin.

It wasn’t hard really, listening to Mary’s recollection of her and John’s life together while picturing what he had done and would do to John with the other part of his mind. She had just been fired from her long time position at another coffee shop and luckily was able to find another at the one down the street while Sherlock threw his head back as John’s hot mouth engulfed his cock. John had asked Mary if she wanted to share a flat with him as Sherlock sucked and nipped at the boy’s color bone, eliciting deep moans of pleasure. He was holding John down be the neck, plowing into him in his mind when Sherlock was brought out of his thoughts by a loud angry voice.

“Why didn’t you write me back?” John’s voice was sharp and angry, earning a few stares from other patrons sitting near them. The erection Sherlock was sporting after all the delicious thoughts of his John started to wane almost instantly at the comment. One because John was livid with him and two… _I never received any letter. What is he going on about?_

“Letters? John I never-“

“Don’t lie to me Sherlock! I sent you at least fifty letters when they put you in jail and you never responded to any of them!” The boy slammed his hand down onto the table, causing the glasses to rattle a bit and some of the dark stout to slosh from John’s glass.

“John I-“ once again he was cut off by John’s rage. While he let the boy vent, however, Sherlock’s mind was working overtime trying to figure out why the letters never reached him. In the end, every possible scenario he could think of came back to one man, Mycroft Holmes. _But why? What purpose would he have and why did he stop my surveillance for the last two years?_ The detective held his glass up to his lips, pausing for a moment as he pondered this new development. However, when he took a sip, the most beautiful realization hit him, which was the fact that John had written him over fifty letters after everything had happened. John had planned on waiting, he wanted to wait, but thought his lover didn’t want him anymore. No boy, especially one as fragile as his John, could hold up to such disappointment.  

This interference from his brother and inattention from Sherlock himself had caused a black hole in his John’s heart. A deep pit filled with hurt where there was supposed to be love, betrayal where there was supposed to be trust, and loneliness where there was supposed to be possession. Sherlock had caused this and now it was time to rectify the situation. Yes, he would deal with Mycroft but first, first the detective would reclaim his role as John’s protector and lover; leaving no doubt in the boy’s mind who he belonged to.

“Well?” John’s voice brought him back to the present. With a hint of relief and satisfaction, Sherlock noticed Mary’s wine glass was empty save for a small pool of red liquid at the bottom and John’s glass was one third empty. _Should be any time now. I should wrap this up before Mary collapses on the table._

“John,” Sherlock started, knowing it would be pointless right now to deny ever receiving the letters. It was strange how telling the truth would be perceived as a lie, when lying would be understood easier as a truth. Nevertheless, acting as broken and scared as the young man before him would work just as it had when he was fourteen. It was the only tactic and Sherlock fell into character easily, looking down at his glass, shame and sadness in his features. “I-I didn’t know what to say. A part of me wanted you so much I could have broken the bars with my own hands to get to you but the other…well, the other part of me was clouded by doubt.” He paused, looking up at the young man whose features where still hard but Sherlock could see the slight cracks forming like pebbles falling to the ground before giant boulders at the beginning of an earthquake. “Mycroft told me it was best if you didn’t see me and I-I shouldn’t have believed him John but I did and I am so, so sorry for the pain I caused you. I thought I was doing what was best for you, please, you have to understand that.” Sherlock looked down at the table again, avoiding eye contact on purpose as he waited for John to respond.

With a little luck, the drugs would be kicking in right about now and John would be in a more…pliant, as well as forgiving, mood. However, it was not John’s voice that broke the silence. “John,” Mary said, her voice sounding tired.

“Mary, are you okay? You look a bit peaky,” Sherlock said, lifting his head quickly and turning the focus onto Mary in hopes John’s mind would automatically accept the man’s reasoning as it switched gears into taking care of his girlfriend.

John only glared at Sherlock for a moment longer before shifting his gaze towards the fading blonde next to him. “What’s wrong? Do you feel nauseous, love?” Sherlock cringed at the word as it fell from John’s lips. Although, the detective did note a hint of slurring in John’s voice as well. Their time was nearing.  

“No, just strange, tired. I guess it’s been a bit longer than I thought since my last drink. Seems I’m a bit of a light weight,” she laughed, rubbing her hand over her forehead.

“Well you do seem a bit flushed. I think it’s time to go,” John slurred as he stood up. Sherlock watched the two sway slightly, Mary grasping on to John’s arm tightly as they made their way towards the exit. “Good night, Sherlock,” John said, walking through the door Sherlock held open for them.

“John wait, at least let me give you a ride home,” he pointed to the car he’d rented just for the night. It was so reminiscent Sherlock couldn’t help but smile for nostalgia’s sake. John unsuspecting but trusting, Sherlock slowly coaxing every bit from him already knowing what was always going to happen. Yes, this was their night and no one, especially the leech hanging on John’s arm. “It’s the least I can do for upsetting you. Plus, we’ll get Mary home faster than a cab, yeah.” He knowingly played on his little Doctor-to-be’s heart.

The young man only hesitated for a moment and then nodded, holding Mary by the waist as he slowly made his way into Sherlock’s car. Once they were settled, Mary already asleep on one side, while Sherlock sat on the other, squishing John in the middle. The driver, a man from his invaluable homeless network who actually knew how to drive, nodded and then pulled away, heading towards 221B. “John, are you feeling okay? You seem to be a bit out of it too,” Sherlock asked, gently placing his hand on the man’s thigh, testing the waters.

“I’m fine,” he slurred, not jerking his leg away from the soft caress, “my head just feels strange. Light, I guess.” They sat in the car, Sherlock slowly reintroducing John to his tough with soft petting over his knees, arms, and hair until finally, John’s eyes opened from their half lidded position. “Sherlock?”

“I’m here, John,” Sherlock whispered, becoming impatient and slightly agitated that it was taking so long to get back to their flat.

“I-I’m sorry-I’m sorry I yelled at you. I just-“ John trailed off, his head lulling to the side slightly as the muscles in his neck relaxed too much to support him

“None of that matters now, my John. Shhh, everything is going to be okay, I promise.”

“My vision…I-I can’t see…” John’s voice trailed off again, the initial release into his bloodstream would be the strongest but soon, Sherlock knew, his lover’s body would begin to metabolize the drug, bringing him back to a more foggy reality.

“You’re alright, John, remember what I told you? I’ll take care of you, always,” Sherlock sighed, a sated smile on his face as John’s head rested on his shoulder. The last five years of torture and now Mycroft’s betrayal all seemed to wash away at that one touch. This was how things were supposed to be, blissful, whole.

“Richard,” Sherlock called to the driver when they pulled up to 221 Baker Street, “drive around for two hours and then come back to pick up John. More of my network will meet you at Mary’s flat to help carry them in to bed. Remember, timing is crucial. The drugs will start wearing off in four hours, so both Mary and John need to be back in their own bed before then. Is that understood?”

“Yes sir,” the man said, nodding once to his employer, who was lifting a half conscious nineteen year old out of the car and into the building. Although John was quite a bit heavier than last time, Sherlock was still able to carry him with an arm under his knees and around his back all the way up the stairs, through the threshold, and finally to the ultimate destination of the night, their bed. Slowly, he lowered John’s limp body on to the bed, practically vibrating with anticipation at feeling the indescribable rapture he’d been denied for five years.

Unwilling and perhaps unable to wait any longer, Sherlock gripped both the boy’s dress shoes and pulled them off, earning a slight moan form the head of the bed. He smiled hungrily, pulling of each layer of clothing slowly, relishing in the soft noises and revelations each unveiling brought. All too soon, Sherlock had unwrapped his present, leaving his gorgeous boy who had turned into a young man lying naked before him. Silver eyes looked upon the tan body, drinking every feature in, pressing his lips to the golden chalice to greedily sip upon the finest dew the world had ever known.

John’s chest, wider and more toned, rose and fell gently, bringing a soft moan from Sherlock’s lips with just the thought of touching his boy. God it was magnificent, the detectives body felt like a live wire ready to spark at their first contact. In a flash, Sherlock was out of his clothes, standing completely nude while looming over John’s body. His cock jutting and twitching slightly at the promise of what was to come; Sherlock stroked himself a few times and then crawled onto the bed, his shoulder blades sticking out like a wild cat stalking through the brush.

The shifting weight must have stirred him because John’s eyes tried to flutter open to peer at his pale lover prowling towards him. “Sh-Sherlock?” He asked dumbly and Sherlock wasn’t even sure if John could see clearly yet, let alone know what was happening.

“Shhh, just relax, John. Let your body respond to me,” Sherlock smiled when the heavy eyes shut again. Slowly, very very slowly, he lowered himself down over the boy, pressing every part of his body against John’s. The warmth was a giant bon fire below him, or perhaps even a sun all to himself. Sherlock rested his head on John’s collar bone, letting his curls cushion just under John’s slightly stubbly jaw as he moved his hands up and down the slight definition of ribs on both sides, letting just his fingertips grace the bumps. It was like playing his violin, Sherlock mused, entertaining their legs together and earning a more coherent grunt when the friction of the movement met John’s still flaccid cock.

n fact, it seemed like John’s entire body was a violin just waiting to be played with tender knowing hands. Sherlock sat up, supporting himself on his knees and began caressing the soft blond hair or the scroll, an ornately carved wood, which sat on top of the neck. He moved his hands down the boy’s jaw line and gently scrapped his nails over the neck, feeling the slight bob of his Adam’s apple. At first, Sherlock thought the upper bout of his instrument was the best with a fine layer of hairs gathering in the middle and delicious looking nipples ready for his mouth to latch onto. However, as he made his way down to the bridge and lower bout, Sherlock could hardly keep the beasts at bay. The muscles in John’s pelvis formed a perfect V shape, leading with a trail of dark blonde hairs all the way down to a now half hard penis. It was similar to when he was only a boy, Sherlock recalled from the room in his mind palace, but now his John had grown into himself with a larger and darker crop of light brown curls surrounding a much larger girth and length than before. He was perfect.

With John still trying to work his way out of a drugged sleep, Sherlock kneeled between the two muscular thighs and lifted them up at an angle, planting the boy’s feet on the bed. This gave him much better access and Sherlock had to stifle a chuckle at the immaturity John brought out in him. “Here’s the f-hole, I see,” he laughed at the still accurate comparison of his boy to a violin. He hadn’t felt this gitty or excited in five years and Sherlock briefly wondered how he had ever lived without it.

Lubing his fingers up generously, Sherlock worked his John open, enjoying the slight twitching of the smaller body on the inside and out. It wasn’t until the third finger was able to move in and out easily that Sherlock turned John around on his stomach, placing a pillow under the boy’s hips to aid in support. When he mounted, John finally spoke in a slightly more lucid voice. “Sherlock? What’s-what’s-“

“Trust me, John, my beautiful John. You will remember soon enough why you spend so much time fantasizing in the shower or rather who you fantasize about.” Sherlock smiled, rubbing his aching cock against the cleft and watching John’s expression change as he was trying to understand what was going on. “Relax,” he breathed out, slowly but insistently pushing his hips forward into the tight heat of his home.

“Ngggaa” John moaned, his eyes squeezing together and both of his hands trying their best to scramble for purchase to push him up. Sherlock though, was unperturbed and placed both hands on John’s shoulder blades and continued his assault. Nothing could stop him now; even if the room suddenly burst into flames they would burn together, their passion searing into each others skin.

“John,” Sherlock sighed, feeling all his breath leave him when he was completely inside his boy’s most cherished place. _My place._ Although the hard part was over, John continued to stir so Sherlock leaned forward, draping himself completely over the warm body and tucking his arms underneath in an intimate hug. “My John, always my John,” he whispered over and over again, waiting for John’s body to adjust and accept him again. Sherlock could tell no one else had been inside him and that was good, that was right, that was how it was supposed to be.

“Hurts,” John mumbled though his body had stopped twitching as it reverted back to autopilot, knowing exactly what it was supposed to do when Sherlock was inside. _Just like riding a bicycle, eh John?_   

“I know, love, I know. Just open up for me again,” Sherlock canted his hips slightly. Already as deep as he could go, the rotation could be felt through his entire member all the way up to every nerve in his body. “That’s it,” he hissed in John’s ear as his upper body stayed plastered to the boy’s back while his hips started to pump slowly. John was opening up for him, learning how to take him again and it was glorious. The slide, the motion, the soft pants and groans all created a dark passionate symphony for just the two of them.

Sherlock removed one of his hands from under John’s chest and traveled down to his now hard cock. _I knew you still loved it John._ He began stoking in time, letting the force of his hips push John forward into his hand. The twitching and pulsing could be felt underneath the soft foreskin he gripped in his hand. _I caused this. Me._ His hips bucked faster, the pillow under John’s hips allowing for the deepest penetration possible with each piercing thrust. “Say my name, John,” Sherlock growled with a sharp jab of his hips, making the boy grunt beautifully. “Say it!”

“Shhhh-Sherlock” John shouted, his eyes squeezing together in correlation with his orgasm. Sherlock felt the rhythmic pulsing in both his hand and from the inside as the contractions massaged his own cock. Within seconds, Sherlock came, slamming his hips as far as he could and pumping his seed into his John, marking him again. Not wanting to leave his body just yet, Sherlock gave a few fluid strokes and then rolled them over to spoon while they were still connected. “S-Stop,” John shivered, still half out of it as he tried to push at Sherlock’s bony hip pressed against his arse.

“No John, keep it inside you,” Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s squirming body, letting his cock grow soft and slip out of its own accord. Small white goo dribbled out of his hole slowly until Sherlock moved his hand back and started gently shoving it back in and plugging the boy closed with his finger as a make shift plug. “I told you you were mine, John.”

They laid there for the rest of the hour, John falling back asleep from exhaustion and the drug still coursing through him while Sherlock kept his finger snug inside the tightening ring, thinking about the most efficient ways to kill Mary Morstan and why his brother lied to him. It was strange how much easier it was to think with John beside him. Normally, Sherlock would be pacing up and down the floor, punching the walls, or smoking until his lungs turned to ash but now, now he was able to hold the boy in his arms and clearly lay out his plans.

The hour flew by way to fast but Sherlock told the darker parts of his mind that they had to let John go for now so the boy would come back of his own volition. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever done but he let Richard and a few other men and women take John away and back to Mary’s flat. Oh what he wouldn’t give to see the look on John’s face when he woke up. Unsure of what happened the night before, confused as to why his arse was so sore, it would be delightful to see the boy come back to him asking questions and willingly accept anything Sherlock told him.

Sherlock slept soundly for the first time in five years. No demons or hurricanes dared to invade his mind palace after John had so easily sealed the doors again. Yes, he needed his John and soon, his John would need him more than ever when the storm finally hit.    

           


	5. Roll Away your Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's POV directly after chapter four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! As always, thanks for the comments and kudos. I really love reading all the different opinions and views on the story. 
> 
> This chapter has mild M/F sexual content. However, do not fear you Johnlock fanatics you, this is a John and Sherlock fic not a John and Mary one. LoL. So take a deep breath and as the great Douglas Adams would say, 'don't panic!' 
> 
> I hope you enjoy and thanks for reading!

Chapter 5 – Roll Away your Stone

**'Cause you told me that I would find a hole.**

**Within the fragile substance of my soul**

**And I have filled this void with things unreal**

**And all the while my character it steals**

**\-- Mumford and Sons; Roll Away your Stone**

 

“I’ll tell ya, John, that Sherlock’s quite a gentleman,” Mary called to him from the bathroom. She was standing in front of the mirror brushing out her wet hair from a morning shower. John only sighed, holding his head to make the room stop spinning as he lay curled up on their bed. Above the headache though, the worst part was he couldn’t remember anything from last night other than yelling at Sherlock for not writing him back. Somehow he’d woken up with an extremely sore arse, in bed, and with Mary passed out by him. Honestly, he didn’t know which part worried him more, the fact that a chunk of his memory was missing or that the sting in his backside was strangely familiar. _He wouldn’t…would he? Oh God, he wouldn’t, please tell me he wouldn’t!_

“John, are you okay, love?” Mary asked, putting her brush down and jumping back into bed.

“Yeah, just thinking I guess,” he said, still racking his brain vainly for any scrap of what happened last night after the bar.

“Mmmm, thinking about what?” She grinned playfully as she curled one arm around his waist and started kissing down his chest. After a moment, John was pulled out of his musings and realized what was happening. To John’s horror, especially John’s pride’s horror, he didn’t want it, no, it’s not that he didn’t want it his body just wasn’t reacting like it was supposed to. _It’s just…the hangover, that’s what it is. I can do this, fuck yeah I can do this!_ John pumped his mind up, riding it of any thoughts containing the word ‘Sherlock’ and smiled wickedly back down at her.

“How damn beautiful you are,” he said, rolling her over onto her back as he braced himself over her. John leaned down, initiated the kiss, taking control of her mouth while she removed both their pants and her thin shirt. He broke the kiss, looking down over her body, her breasts her stomach and all the way down to the small patch of light brown curls waiting, below his… _oh fuck, get it up, John! Get it up!_ Panicking at his still flaccid penis that decided not to listen to any of the signals transmitting from his brain, John started sucking and kissing at her breasts while sneaking his hand down to desperately jerk himself into hardness.

Apparently, he was taking a lot longer than he thought when he felt a hand on his cheek pushing him away from the new painfully raw looking mark on her left breast. “Shite, sorry,” John panted, still stroking himself only to realize he was only half hard and now his own member was becoming raw.

“It’s okay, umm, do you want me to-“ she asked, pointing down to offer her assistance. _How fucking embarrassing is that? What if I still can’t, Jesus, come on!_

“No, no, just give me a tic,” he pleaded, rubbing one hand on himself and the other over the body that was supposed to turn him on. _‘Trust me, John, my beautiful John’_ a deep silky voice whispered in his mind and John realized the only thing worse than not being able to have sex with his girlfriend was to only be able to have sex with said girlfriend because of the voice of the man who raped him as a boy in his head. As if turning on the switch, John’s cock sprung to life at the vision of Sherlock behind him, petting his back and stroking over his cheeks gently.

John was surprised that the shame he felt didn’t make his newly found erection flag but as soon as he could feel a dull pressure and pain in his arse, John thrust forward into Mary. Her moans where drowned out by the grunts behind him and the panting breath in his ear. With every push behind him, his hips were forced into the warm heat of _Sherlock’s hand? No, no it’s not it’s Mary, I’m fucking Mary because she’s a woman and my girlfriend._ It didn’t matter though, with every movement John could feel the pain in his backside, the weight on his back, the long slim fingers spayed out over his chest, and the cooing praises seeped into his mind making the man come harder than he ever done inside of Mary. _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock._ Then suddenly, his back felt cold again and despite being buried deep inside the woman he thought he loved, John felt alone. 

When he pulled out and rolled over on his back to lie next to Mary, John realized she was still staring at him wide eyed. _Shite, did she come? Damn, I don’t remember._ “Did you-umm, was it okay?” he asked, feeling self-conscious and desperately trying to hide the fact that in his mind she wasn’t even a part of what just happened.

“How do you know Sherlock, John?” She asked, her eyes turning from angry to hurt right before him.

“What?” John asked, squirming a bit from the chill caused by his sweat soaked skin.

“Unbelievable, un-fucking-believable, I should have known with the way you were acting yesterday. Do you still love him?” The question hit John in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. _What did I do to give it away? Shite, shite, shite! I don’t love him, though. I can’t._

“Mary, why-“

“You were shouting his name, John. What, you thought I didn’t hear? Bloody hell, you were shouting it at the top of your lungs,” she turned on her side to look at him, propping herself up on one elbow. _I was?_ John looked away, his face turning red with anger and embarrassment.

“It’s-it’s a long story…one that, one that I’d rather not talk about. I don’t love him, though, Mary. I love you and you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” _you help me forget, you make me feel normal,_ is what John didn’t say. “Last night just brought up a lot of memories that should’ve stayed buried. Whatever it was between me and him was one sided,” _is that why you were rock hard as soon as I touched you, John?_ Sherlock’s voice echoed through him, laughing and taunting at his pathetic attempt to run and hide from the obvious truth.

She stared at him for the longest time, running her hand over his cheek soothingly. “Did you sleep with him?” John only nodded, lowering his gaze from his own omission. “But it’s over, now?”

“Yes!” John said a little bit too quickly, trying to convince himself more than anything. These new feelings bubbling up to the surface frightened him more than anything. How he could go from keeping those adolescent feelings deep inside a covered well to now diving in after them made absolutely no sense. Although, he had learned much about what Sherlock supposedly did to his mind from books and Google searches, it still seemed ridiculous how ‘real’ his feelings felt towards the man. “I’m mean…I want to be with you, Mary, no one else.”

Again, she hesitated, looking into John’s eyes for some hint of deception or truth. Finally, she smiled, “he is pretty damn sexy though, yeah? He’s a bit too tall for you though,” she laughed, accepting him back with open arms. John felt dirty, disgusting, and undeserving of such love now that he was a liar. Perhaps though, John prayed to whatever God was listening, that in time, his words would reign true and Mary’s touch would be all he needed. _‘No John, keep it inside you. I told you you were mine.’_ The voice called to him as he felt Sherlock’s soft cock slip out of him. _When did he say that? I-I don’t remember when he…no!_

At that moment, John put two and two together. Although his memories were laced with static, fuzzy images, John knew why his arse hurt, why Sherlock’s voice spoke to him, and why Mary couldn’t remember anything either. _He drugged and raped me._ “Yeah, hehe, I guess he is, isn’t he?” John chuckled half-heartedly, “Mary, do you remember anything from last night?” John did his best to keep his voice calm, grasping onto the tiny grain of hope that he was wrong.

She wrinkled her brow together, looking up to recall any information but then shrugged her shoulders. “I think that wine hit me pretty hard, love. Why?”

“Nothing, nothing, I was just hoping I didn’t drink too much and make a fool out of myself.” John sat up, rubbing his eyes harder than he probably should have but it didn’t seem to erase away the thoughts in his head.

“Well if you did, at least I don’t remember either,” she laughed again, trying to reassure the man who was starting to go pale in front of her eyes. “Are you sure you’re alright? You don’t look so good. How about I make us some waffles to get rid of that hangover.” She got out of bed and went to the bathroom to clean up a bit and then returned with a fresh set of pants and shirt. “You want blueberries or-“ she was cut off by a loud chime from her mobile.

John was lost in his thoughts of how he was going to address what had happened last night when he heard Mary’s voice with an odd mix of over friendliness and amusement. “Oh Sherlock, how are you? Yes, yes, we got home just fine, thank you.” She laughed at something he said but John couldn’t quite hear the other side of the conversation. “No, it wasn’t your fault, no, John and I just can’t hold our liquor very well, I guess.”

“Mary, let me talk to him,” John said, reaching for the phone only to have his hand swatted away playfully. _Oh God, he’s trying to get into her mind too. Mess her up until she can’t even think straight!_

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, yes, that does sound lovely. I have to work until four but you can stop by for some coffee afterwards and we can talk, if you’d like.”

“Mary, no!” John didn’t know why he was whispering.

“Perfect, just no wine this time,” she laughed, “okay, see you then, ta.”

“Mary! Tell me you are not going out with him again?” John stood up, looking around for the pants that had been removed earlier. When he couldn’t find them, he grabbed the sheet and wrapped it around his waist.

“Oh relax John, bloody hell you act as if the guys a bloody lunatic or something! It’s just drinks. What, are you afraid we’ll compare the dirty details?” She grinned cheekily at him, not understanding at all why John was so panicked.    

“You just…you just don’t understand.”

“Then why don’t you explain it to me, John? Why can’t you just talk to me? Have I ever once not understood?”

“No…it’s just,” John started, his head starting to pound again. It was too much and John had no idea what he was supposed to do or why things had to be so fucking complicated. Why couldn’t she just take his word for it and not talk to Sherlock? Better yet, why did Sherlock even have to come back? Why couldn’t he have died and then the memories could have stayed hidden away and manageable. Hell, why did John have to get on that stupid fucking chat room five years ago? Everything had built up to this, every action, every discussion, every decision, every damn cup of coffee he bought from her led to this. How and why didn’t matter anymore to John, it couldn’t, if it did, he knew that he would surly go made from the what-ifs and should-haves. Now, the only thing he could do was keep himself from crumbling and stop Mary from a similar fate. He had to talk to Sherlock, throw everything out on the table and probably punch the man in the face once or twice until the voices in his head stopped taunting him while he buggered his girlfriend.  

“If you can’t give me one good reason why I shouldn’t talk to him then I’m going to,” she told him matter-of-factly. John could tell she was using any tactic she could to try and get him to open up but that couldn’t happen. If John told her about his real relationship with Sherlock…well, then she would look at him like his mother still looks at him; like his teachers and the therapists and the bloody doctors. That in itself would break John more than he thought possible.

“Alright, just call me when you leave, yeah?” John gave in but was already planning his own coup.

“Of course I will. Anything for my crazy…but adorable boyfriend,” she kissed him on his forehead and then went into the kitchen. After she left the room, John walked over to his trousers lying on the floor and pulled out his mobile from the front pocket. He sat back down on the bed, rubbing his finger of the touchscreen nervously until he finally built up the courage and typed in Sherlock’s number, which he’d pulled from the call on Mary’s phone.

**John: We need to talk. Now.**

Not one minute later, there was a response. _Bastard was probably waiting for me._

**Sherlock: Y of course, John. Meet me at Baker Street in an hour, if convenient.**

**John: Fine**

**Sherlock: C u then, John**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't know much about erectile disfunction or anything of the like and I didn't think it would have a positive effect on the relationship with my husband if I asked him to give me details. So, to any of the guys who are reading this fic, sorry if I got it wrong.


	6. Feel the Tide Turning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV directly after chapter five.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, well sadly, we are getting close to the end. I'm thinking three or four more chapters, with one of them being Mycroft's POV. Also, my plan is to have the series finished by the end of this week, so hopefully you guys won't have to wait to long because you know how much I like to torture you with cliffhangers(: 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has supported and commented, I really appreciate it!
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter.

Chapter 6 – Feel the Tide Turning

“Welcome back, John,” Sherlock provided his most amiable smile. “No, hmmm, ‘good afternoon, John. Welcome home.’” The detective tilted his head in a slight bow, keeping his eyes focused on the bathroom mirror to see if he gave off the right impression. A growl escaped his throat before he was able to compose himself and brush back his curls. “’Hello, John’…yes, yes, that’s perfect.” Sherlock clapped his hands together, holding them momentarily underneath his chin and then left to sit in the living room to wait for his John to come home. His excitement and anticipation was visible even as he sat down.  

Sherlock knew John would realize what happened the night before. If he hadn’t noticed the slight pain in his arse from Sherlock getting a bit too over excited, well then he needed to be more worried about John’s reasoning skills than today’s plan. Before he had called Mary, Sherlock had contacted his most trusted informant and tasked her with staking out the coffee shop. Not only was she to keep an eye on things but the homeless woman had been given a vial of Sherlock’s own creation, which upon consumption, the victim would go into cardiac arrest within the hour and have a 14% chance of survival.

It was perfect, John would be here with him, _where he belongs,_ when Mary succumbed to what would appear to be a naturally caused heart attack. Perhaps for a moment his John might be confused and blame him for the death but the facts would be clear and undeniable. _How could I have killed her when your cock was inside me at the time, John?_ Everything was going splendid and all that was left was to bring back those triggers and feelings, which had sat dormant in his John for so many years. Deep down inside John still wanted Sherlock, still wanted to be taken care of even if societies hooks had been driven into him further, the detective would pull them out and heal his boy again. That’s how it was supposed to be and that’s how it would be, in the end.

Sherlock could practically smell the fury coming from John when he heard a knock at the front door. Fury was good though, he could work with that and either mold or redirect it to a better cause. All strong emotions were the same, stemming from either lust or anger as they teetered back and forth from one dominant passion to another. Lust could be disguised by anger and vice versa, creating a fault line ready to crumble, which made it all too easy to expose them both for what they truly were…fear. John had much fear inside himself, ready to be caressed and devoured to Sherlock’s liking. The only thing Sherlock feared was losing John and now, he would control it, keep it so that the boy who held his fear could never go away again.

With a slight hop in his step, Sherlock walked over to the door and opened it to see John, red faced with tears threatening to pour from his angry eyes. “Hello Jo-“ Before the detective could even react, his boy, who was now a heavier and stronger young man, tackled him into the room. The blows to his chest and stomach hurt but Sherlock counted out two whole minutes of letting John vent while he protected his face with his forearms. It was important to let everything out, physically first because after all, John probably had quite a bit more testosterone than before, and then the emotional release would come, by Sherlock pulling at the masks and layers hiding the true emotions. Nevertheless, Sherlock would be there for all of it and especially the afterwards when John had given up his fight and learned that he was right five years ago when he decided to stay and let himself be taken care of. Sadly, this was how it had to be and every single bruise was necessary, even the ones Sherlock might have to give his John.

After exactly 120 seconds, 31 punches to his torso, and somewhere between 50 and 90 ‘stupid bastards’ and ‘fucking arse holes,’ Sherlock had had enough. With one precise movement, he lowered one arm and punched John hard in the solar plexus, bringing a silent cry from his boy’s lips. John gasped for air, shutting his eyes tight in pain as both his hands came up to grasp his chest. Sherlock used that moment to wrap his legs around John’s waist and his arms around the other’s torso to flip them over so he was now on top of the still panting man. With John’s hips secure under his, both hands pinned to the floor by the side of his head, and their faces only inches apart, Sherlock finally sighed in relief that his ribs could take a rest for what was to come.

“John, calm down,” Sherlock ordered, making his voice low and stern, hoping it would start the nuclear reactors initiation sequence. It was a matter of flipping a few switches inside John’s head; the only problem was finding the long lost triggers after five years of denial to start the count down.

“Get off me,” John hissed, trying desperately to buck his hips upward to dislodge the heavier detective. Although John had grown over the past five years, his muscles taking on more mass and his structure widening and elongating _sort of elongating_ , Sherlock still possessed more of both along with substantial knowledge of pressure points and fighting. All in all, if he didn’t want John to leave that floor it would be easy to keep the boy pinned.  He let John struggle for another two minutes, constantly shushing him and stroking gently over the underside of the boy’s wrist as if to calm a wild animal.

Finally, the majority of the adrenaline was gone and all John could do was twitch every so often while staring tear soaked daggers up at Sherlock. “Shhh, you’re alright, John,” he cooed down at him, continuing to make tiny rotations with his hips to discretely stimulate the boy’s cock, which was slightly growing plump already. “You’re alright, just breathe. That’s it, good boy,” he smiled at the slight flicker those two words of ‘good boy’ brought to life in John’s eyes. It was small and if it was anybody else besides Sherlock above him, the shift would have gone unnoticed.

“Let. Me. Up. Now.” John said, his voice thick from crying but Sherlock could tell he was trying to keep his tone even and stern as if the situation was still in his control. _Oh my sweet little boy thinks he’s grown up._

“Now, why would I do that when you are obviously going to try to hit me again?” Sherlock grinned, making his rutting slightly more forceful to keep John’s mind split in half; one focusing on the pleasure while the other attempted to stay angry and stop what was already set in stone five years ago.

“Because you fucking raped me, that’s why! You took advantage of me five years ago and now you’re doing it again but this time you’re drugging me so I can’t even remember!” _Well technically I drugged you when you were fourteen as well but that’s neither here nor there, I suppose._ John continued his struggling, albeit weakly.

Sherlock tsked lightly, leaning back to put more weight on John’s hips. “Took advantage? Hmmm, now that sounds like your therapist talking, John,” he smirked, already seeing the cracks his little boy tried to hide from the world, from him. It was obvious, both from what Mycroft had told him about John blaming himself and, by the looks of things, John still couldn’t get his old lover out of his mind, that John never pictured himself as a victim but an accomplice. “Tell me, John,” he thrust his hips forward, rocking John a bit, “do you feel ‘taken advantage’ of?” The words ‘taken advantage’ were laced with condescension and mockery, implying they had no place in their relationship.

“Y-You can’t just drug people and fo-force them to-“

“Force you?” Sherlock asked, putting on his best shocked and hurt face. “John, do you even remember what happened last night?” The boy’s look told him no. “You two had way too much to drink, which I must say I do not approve of,” he scolded, shifting the dynamic to ensure John was falling into the mind set of his younger self. “I would not call you begging me, forced or being taken advantage of. “ John looked angry and confused but there was doubt there, doubt in himself yes, but not in Sherlock’s words. _Good, very good, John._

“I-I did not! I would never!” John spat, shaking his head roughly, trying to shake the memories loose.

“I would imagine it would be frustrating, no?” Sherlock started, painting his face with concern and pity as he struck the final blow, which would crack John in half, displaying a huge cavern of amethysts and geodes that had been hidden away from the world, ready for Sherlock’s taking. “What, when Mary no longer provides the amount of stimulus needed for you to please her. Tell me, John, are you still able to-“

“SHUT UP!” John shouted before Sherlock could even finish his question, which told the detective his observations had been right. John was having erectile deficiencies when it came to having sex with Mary and most likely pulled up images of his time with Sherlock to assist. It warmed his heart that even when he wasn’t with John, he was still controlling his mind just like when the boy had come at school those many years ago. John was still his and always would be, even if the boy refused to believe it.

“Do you feel taken advantage of, John?” he asked again, watching as the question finally sunk in and had the desired effect, calling forth the guilt and memories.

John continued to glare at him but when the intense scrutiny and most likely guilt for thinking the emotions he was feeling were wrong caused the boy to look away. John tilted his head to the side, unconsciously baring his throat and it took every ounce of will power for Sherlock not to latch on to the soft, newly shaved skin. “Just…just leave me and Mary alone, Sherlock. I can let the past go if you just let us get along with our lives,” John bargained, which shouldn’t have made the man above him smile but he couldn’t help himself.

Finally, Sherlock thought gleefully, finally they had reached the bargaining stage, which meant there was only one left to go…acceptance. John had already been through both the denial and depression stage, the depression being his attempt to leap of the bridge and then denial taking a surprising five years. Then the anger, which was defused rather quickly and Sherlock hoped it wouldn’t spring its ugly head again, though, for his stomach’s sake. Now, right before his eyes, John was bargaining with him, making a deal for the life he used to have and it broke Sherlock’s heart to have to put his little John through this.  

Yes, John was grieving, mourning the loss of his former self, of the life he knew he didn’t want but felt the urge to hold on to as Sherlock dragged him away onto greener grasses. It was brilliant to see the shifts in his boy and now the only stage left was to accept the fate he was being given. “Is that what you really want, John?” He asked, leaning his head down to barely touch his lips over the boy’s slightly rougher cheek. The ghosting touch and the figure eight movements over the boy’s cock, sent an earthquake of shivers through them both, causing the fault lines to shift.

“Please,” John cried quietly, his voice sounding small and helpless as his eyes closed.

“Please what, John?” The man smirked smugly, watching the slight hints of pink form on the boy’s cheeks.

“I-I can’t” Sherlock rocked his hips, “this isn’t,” and again, harder this time, “please, Sherlock, don’t,” John sobbed but the full hardness in his pants told Sherlock that there was only a small piece of string holding his boy’s desires at bay.

“Why? Give me one reason that you really want me to stop, John, and I will,” Sherlock halted his hips, raising them up a bit to deny John his much needed friction. It was hard seeing him like this, even for Sherlock, but it was necessary. Everything, the pain, the death of Mary, everything paid the bill to keep the lights on and the dungeons locked inside his mind.

“B-B-Because, I-I-“ John’s eyes filled with tears and the young man who tried so hard to build a shell around the tenderness Sherlock had created, cracked.

“Shh shh shh,” Sherlock whispered. He lifted his leg, moving gracefully off John’s hips and gently pulled the sobbing boy to him. When his back was braced on the bottom of the sofa and John’s back was held against his chest, Sherlock sighed in contentment. This moment would remain on an ornately carved stand in the grand hall of his mind palace. The memory was now represented by a set of small emerald porcelain tea cups and a larger tea pot. The cups that had once been cracked and shattered on the floor were now repaired with beautiful golden lines, reminiscent of the Kintsugi technique where flaws were no longer hidden but rejoiced and turned into the most beautiful art known to man.

Sherlock held his boy gently, letting the golden caulk dry and seal itself without being disturbed. “I-I can’t…I’m not-“ John tried again, frightening Sherlock at how broken the young man actually was and how much had been hidden and built up over the past five years. Those emotions were coming back and poor John had built up so much interest on his debt that it was now coming back with a vengeance.

“Can’t what, John?” He asked, petting over the soft blonde hair, noting that John used a different shampoo than he used to.

“I can’t l-lose you again…not again, I’m not-not strong enough,” John sniffled, trying half-heartedly to get out of Sherlock’s embrace. _Oh John, how is it you surprise me every time._ The detective smiled, in awe of his John, who seemed so normal, so average but was hiding so much inside himself that he even astonished Sherlock. That was what he was worried about, the root of his fear, which had caused all the symptoms of denial, depression, anger, and bargaining, it was the reason he never wanted to talk to his mom, the reason he stayed with Mary, the reason he tackled Sherlock. It was fear, John’s fear of not being strong enough, of losing the only person who had ever made him feel safe. At that moment, Sherlock realized how similar they were in their fears; Sherlock held John’s as John held his.

“I won’t ever let you go, John,” Sherlock whispered into his ear, “you are mine.”

“But…Mary,” John was breathless when Sherlock reached down and started to undo the boy’s trousers. He grabbed his flagged penis and began stroking John back into life, squeezing gently and rubbing his finger over the head teasingly. Sherlock smiled wickedly when John was fully hard in record time as he nibbled on the boy’s red ears playfully and rutted against his backside with his own hardness. He jerked him faster, pushing John into his hand slightly with his own thrusts below. To finish him off, Sherlock dropping his other hand down from John’s chest to the boy’s drawn up bullocks and started rolling them and petting them gently. The shorter body shivered and then stiffened, followed by a moan as John came, throwing his head back onto Sherlock’s shoulder at his release.

John laid there, letting Sherlock pump into his covered arse until the man came in his own trousers. The complete satisfaction wasn’t there because John wasn’t inside him but it would have to do for now because John needed to forget about everything except the feelings Sherlock gave him. “But…this isn’t fair, I shouldn’t have…Mary,” John stuttered out, his conscious getting the better of him.

Sherlock practically growled at the name but told the dark part within himself that the cancer would soon be gone and he would have John all to himself again. “You won’t have to worry about her much longer,” Sherlock smiled but was taken aback when John stiffened in his arms. _Shiteshiteshite. Okay you moron, damage control, think Sherlock, think._

“What…Sherlock, what does that mean?” John, his jeans and pants pulled down mid-thigh with a stain on his shirt and the back of his trousers from both their come, tried to scoot away from in between Sherlock’s legs as he wiped his eyes. He wrapped his arms around John’s stomach and pulled him back, keeping him pinned between his chest and tight grip. “Sherlock!” John began to wiggle as he pulled himself out of the hole Sherlock had placed him in, blinding him from any third party influence or thoughts that didn’t involve just them. All the progress Sherlock had just made was slowly slipping away because of his stupid mouth. _This is unacceptable._

“John, I need you to trust me,” Sherlock added, having to place his legs over John’s as they started to panic and kick. The boy’s anger and adrenaline had resurfaced and it was time he learned Sherlock was there to take care of him, not hurt him.

“I don’t! I don’t trust you,” John shouted, his tears were drying on his cheeks, making him look like a petulant child pouting and defiant. “How can I, Sherlock? What the fuck are you planning on doing? Tell me!” John shouted again, fighting desperately to turn around and face Sherlock, who kept an iron grip on the boy.

“I’m going to take care of everything, John, so we can be together forever,” Sherlock told him, which to the detective’s surprise, didn’t slow the struggling. _Why on earth would you be so worried about that woman, John? It’s obvious you don’t lover her. Do you think she is your last bit of hope at clinging on to this old life? If so, then you know what needs to be done, my love._

“You can’t just…you’re not going to kill her, you can’t! Sherlock, please, she doesn’t know anything, she’s innocent!” John cried. One of his arms slipped out from Sherlock’s vice grip and elbowed the man’s groin hard. Sherlock shouted as sharp pain spread from his lower regions all the way up to his chest and down to his toes. John scrambled away, landing an extra kick to Sherlock’s stomach before he stood up and stumbled towards the door in a blind panic.

Sherlock’s heart hurt more than his chest and groin, well actually his still sensitive cock hurt more but it was the fact that John did it to him that was really painful. “John, get back here!” Sherlock shouted, bolting upright and stretching out an oozing mass of black tar to reach for the boy, who was already opening the front door. The thickness that the boy’s escape brought out in him left a scorching black mark on John’s right shoulder as it slipped off before Sherlock could get a firm hold.

He was chasing John down the stairs, preparing himself to have to haul the boy back up forcefully when suddenly he tripped over his own feet and tumbled down to the landing just as John ran outside onto the pavement. _Fuck!_ Sherlock growled again, his eyes pooling with possessiveness and his mouth seething with frustration. He had to get John, that was first, then convince the boy that this was how it had to be and surly, surly he would realize Sherlock was right. If not, then he would just have to make him.

When Sherlock stood up, his knee giving way slightly from the harsh fall, and ran outside, looking in both directions to see which way his John ran off to. He was nowhere to be found though, and the detective began to panic. Where could he have gone and what might happen to him flooded Sherlock’s mind. Then, as if someone had heard his frantic questioning, his mobile rang with a text. He quickly pulled it out and immediately, equal waves of fear and relief took him over.

**Mycroft: I have him. What were you planning on doing, Sherlock?**

**Sherlock: Keeping him. Give him back, I need to talk to him. Now.**

**Mycroft: No.**

“God, damn it!” Sherlock shouted at the phone, racking his mind to figure out what Mycroft wanted with John and why the hell was he waiting just outside 221B.

**Mycroft: Finish what u need to do. Then, go wait at Baker Street. I will be in touch.**

Sherlock was in the middle of typing ‘don’t you dare harm him’ but another text came before he could hit send.

**Mycroft: We both need him, Sherlock. I won’t hurt him.**

At the sight of the text, Sherlock ran his hand through his hair nervously; his mind working overtime to find some clue as to why Mycroft would need John if he didn’t want to hurt him. Then, like a lightning bolt struck, Sherlock remembered the conversation he was trying to ignore at the pub on the first night he met Mary. _What did she say, what did she say about her job? Focus, Sherlock, focus._   _‘It was so strange, I was fired for no bloody reason and then I get this email from the coffee shop down the street saying they needed a cashier, immediately. That’s when John and I met! It was like it was meant to be.’_

Sherlock’s brown furrowed as he gnawed on his lip in confusion. Every single search he ran on Mary came back normal, too normal for someone like Mycroft to want something from her. The detective looked at the clock on his phone. It was too late, Juliet had already given Mary the drug and someone at the café would most likely be calling 999 any moment now.

Perhaps this was the first time Sherlock and his brother’s agendas came hand in hand or perhaps…well, Sherlock had no idea and that’s what pissed him off even more. The fact that John was with his brother, who had some unknown ulterior motive, which cast both John and Sherlock as his pawns was quite unsettling indeed. _But what am I supposed to do now?_ Again, as if his fucking omnipotent brother, who most likely had someone watching him on CCTV, texted him again.

**Mycroft: I’m not going to hurt John. Go inside and wait for him to return.**

Sherlock grumbled, debating whether to type in a few choice words for his brother but then decided not to bite the hand that possibly held a knife to his John’s throat. Sherlock went inside and decided to distract his maelstrom of a mind by hacking into the dispatch calls and videos to monitor Mary’s death. Sometimes, the best predator was the one who waited for the prey to come to it.   


	7. Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's POV as he lays it all out on the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I know I say thank you every chapter but I really do mean it, I appreciate all the comments and kudos from everyone(:
> 
> This is a super-duper long chapter and explains pretty much everything that was going on in the background and justifies the 'Mycroft Meddling' tag. No smut, a lot of dialogue...sorry. LoL! 
> 
> Also, I don't know much about my own Government, let alone Britain's so I am very vague on a few things to keep from making any fatal errors. My apologies if there is not enough detail in a few parts but I think that's a bit better than completely screwing it up(: The only thing you really need to know is that Mycroft controls everything and everyone. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Chapter 7 – Liar

Mycroft rotated his mobile in his hand, flipping it over to look at the time and then turning it again along the curve of his palm. Timing was crucial, he knew, if everything was to go as planned. It was up to John now, really, the boy’s decisions were all that mattered and would prove more difficult to sway than Mycroft originally thought. The live feed video from inside Sherlock’s flat had just proven that to both Holmes’ in a preverbal slap in the face or a more literal kick in the stomach. John was a good person and sadly, or perhaps not so sadly, that trait was not normally calculated into Mycroft’s plans. However, it was only a minor setback, which Mycroft had already come up with twenty one ways to resolve; all but two ending with John fully intact.

As soon as Anthea had shown him the live feed of John tackling Sherlock, his driver rerouted and took him straight to Baker Street. He would have loved to take credit for the impeccable timing of arriving just as John was running out of the flat but modesty had always been one of Mycroft’s more appealing traits. It was extraordinary and proved that fate was definitely on his side as John, red faced and panicked, burst through the door. Grabbing the opportunity by the neck, Mycroft opened up the back door and called to the frantic boy, motioning to the front seat to tell Anthea to watch for Sherlock on the video.

“John, are you alright?” He said, keeping his voice nonchalant as if he didn’t know his angry brother was barreling down the stairs towards them.

“M-Mycroft?” John panted, squinting to see who was sitting in the car even though the sun was not in his eyes. The boy continued to look up and down the street, trying to formulate an escape plan but Mycroft insisted.

“Please, get in, I’ll take you to Mary,” it wasn’t a lie, well, technically not a lie depending if the young woman was still alive by the time John had made his decision. His blue eyes grew wide and without another word, John jumped into the car, slamming the door behind him. Travis drove away from 221 as soon as John was inside, without even waiting for Mycroft’s order.

John was panting heavily, his body and mind in fight or flight mode as he sat across from Mycroft, rubbing his hand over his face and worrying his lip. Mycroft texted Sherlock, telling him John was in his care for the time being and to wait for them at the flat. Not surprisingly, he had to repeat himself, which he loathed, to get Sherlock to go back inside. When Anthea gave him the confirmation, he refocused his attention on John. “John?”

“Sherlock, I think…I think he’s going to try and kill Mary. We have to get to her before he does, please Mycroft, we have to hurry!” John was already panicking, his features tense as he tried to stop his lower lip from trembling. He couldn’t blame the poor boy though, John had been through a lot in his young life and never quite had sturdy ground below him long enough to gain footing. The five years Mycroft had let him spend with Mary was the only time John was able to get his head straight but Sherlock’s tampering was too much for the teenager to overcome. Now, it was too late, John had been carried into the center of Sherlock’s web as a child but couldn’t get to the edge while the spider’s back was turned. Now, the spider was hungry.

“I know,” was all Mycroft said, watching as the young man’s features twitched and contorted, no doubt mirroring the wheels turning inside his head.

“You know? What do you mean, ‘you know?’” John was coming down from his adrenaline rush, his voice becoming more focused and clear rather than rushed.

“It’s already done, John, Mary is on her way to the hospital now. She collapsed at her work from what appeared to be a heart attack. My deepest condolences, I know you were fond of her,” Mycroft knew it was an understatement but thought it best to start preparing John for the mindset he would have to don to survive. At the end of the day, well more like at the end of five years, John’s survival was all that mattered. _That and Mary’s death of course._

“Wait, just wait a minute,” John held up his hand as if he could stop time while the truth of what was really happening came raging towards him, unstoppable and fierce. “You mean she appeared to have a…or Sherlock made her have a…” the boy trialed off, not able to say the words, so Mycroft took pity on him and began filling in the gaps. He did like John, even loved him for whatever worth the word meant coming from ‘The Iceman’ as some of his disgruntled ex-employees referred to him. The young man, the boy, who was able to keep Sherlock, his baby brother, in check and out of trouble rivaled for the top spot of his number one asset, just under Sherlock himself.

Their worth was evident from what they had already accomplished together within the past five years and even within the first week of their reunion. Mycroft knew Sherlock wouldn’t take the deal with the FBI, thus leaving him his only option of destroying Moriarty’s drug, sex, and porn circles. All the while John offered the perfect incubator in keeping Mary in England, away from her family, and ready to be terminated at any moment. It just so happened that Sherlock’s return, another omen of destiny being on their side, coincided with Mary’s ‘real’ father obtaining a high and extremely pivotal role within the judiciary system.

It is difficult when other men of power refuse to cooperate and Mycroft hated forcing other’s hands with violence and threats. Yes, he much preferred bribing or perhaps little favors here and there when it came to having someone in his pocket. _Saves on the paper work tremendously._ However, it seemed that some men would never learn how to remove their pride or sense of loyalty, _kind words for stupidity,_ before it was too late and the threats made against them were enacted. Collateral damage was sometimes necessary but it had never dovetailed with his more…personal affairs so well before.

“John, how long have you and Mary been together?” Mycroft started from the beginning.

“Two years.”

“And where did you meet?”

“At her coffee shop. What the fuck does this have to do with anything? You tell me right now, Mycroft, is Mary dying and did Sherlock try to killer her?” John’s voice was rising, as was his anger.

Mycroft only sighed, opening the sliding door to reveal a hidden compartment with four crystal tumblers and decanter full of amber liquid. Ignoring his last two questions, Mycroft grabbed two glasses between his fingers, handing one to John and holding the other in his palm. “And where did she work before that, do you remember John?” The boy was awestruck as he was poured two fingers of the single malt and asked another odd question. Mycroft was throwing puzzle pieces at the kid without even showing him what the picture was supposed to look like, but this was how it had to be.

“I don’t know…the coffee shop down the road, why?” John held the glass on his knee, focusing all his attention on the man in front of him.

“Yes, very good. Now, tell me John,” Mycroft stopped, swirling his glass around and taking a silent sip before he continued, “do you believe in coincidences?”

John hesitated for a moment, furrowing his brow as if to grasp onto where the other man was going with this line of questioning. Finally, the boy took a sip, wincing slightly at the harshness of the scotch and then stared into the scotch, looking for his answer. John was a smart boy, always had been, however, his inability to understand motives that were somewhat immoral in nature inhibited him from becoming a wolf and left him wondering around in the dark, confused and afraid.

“I don’t-I don’t understand. What are you telling me, Mycroft? Why can’t you just come out and say it, for fuck’s sake! Why-why do you always have to mess with my head, both of you, you and your fucking brother? I’m done, I’m so bloody done with this shite! Just let me out right now or so help me…” John left his threat hanging; an old trick used by boys who had no idea what a real threat was, much less how to go through with one. Mycroft only gave a tight lipped smile, offering John more leeway than most, after all, it wouldn’t do to harm the young man now.

“What I am asking, John,” he let a touch of irritation show in his voice, “is if it seems a bit strange to you that someone would be fired at a coffee shop for absolutely no reason and then receive a job application from the café right down the street. The only café you go to, which I must admit is a rather poor choice considering the other has those cranberry and white chocolate scones but that is neither here nor there. My point is, do you really believe your meeting was pure happenstance?”

“Are you saying…you,” John pointed at Mycroft, lifting one of his fingers off the glass he was gripping tightly. “You can’t be serious, this makes no sense, not one bit,” John continued to glare at him, flicking his eyes over towards the door every so often. _Really, John? What are you planning to do, jump out? You’re not fourteen anymore and I’m afraid that would have much worse consequences than you or I are willing to pay._ “In your crazy Holmes world, let’s say I believe you set me up with Mary. Okay, I get that, you thought I was going to hurt myself so you set me up with someone to watch out for me but why…why are you letting Sherlock kill her. I mean, she didn’t do anything, she helped me and now…” John’s face contorted again, trying desperately to understand what his good heart and kind nature would never allow him to fully comprehend.

Mycroft debated if he should give John the illusion that they were put together for his own happiness. Sometimes, though, the truth, no matter how harsh, had to be told for the healing to start. Their situation was quite reminiscent of the first time Mycroft had John in his car, explaining what had happened and what was to happen. It made the man smile, thinking almost like a proud father at how well John turned out despite the hand he was dealt. “It is important you understand what I am about to tell you, John. You are not going to like what you hear but it is the truth and I only ask that you wait until I am finished before you make your decision.”

John looked angry, his eyes still flicking towards the door as if contemplating if he should throw caution to the wind and jump. After a moment though, the boy took a sip and squared his shoulders. “Will you take me to Mary if I listen?” _Oh John._

“Yes, we are headed to the hospital as we speak.” John nodded and Mycroft told him how the last five years had been played out like a chess board.

**Three years earlier**

“Mr. Holmes, David Calloway is here to see you. Shall I let him in?”

“Yes, thank you Anthea,” Mycroft released the intercom and pulled out a box of his finest Cuban cigars, which his PA had purchased a month ago for such an occasion. Personally, Mycroft had never understood the fascination with filling ones lungs with tar, not only was the taste unpleasant but Anthea had to run his suits through the cleaners twice when he had a ‘client’ who indulged.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” the man entered the room, his thinning hair slicked back and his grey suit nicely pressed. Yes, Mycroft could already tell this man would go far and become a valuable asset within his arsenal. David had already risen through the ranks in his field quite quickly and with a little help, he would move even higher within the coming years.

“Please, call me Mycroft,” he smiled warmly, gesturing for the man to sit down. “I hear you are a fan,” Mycroft said, holding up the light wooden box, showing the man a neat row of cigars to choose from.

“Oh, wow, yes, thank you, these are…really nice.” If Mycroft hadn’t already pulled every possible file on the man to know David had come from a poor family, it would have been obvious by the way he gaped at the expensive cigars. This saddened him, not because of the man’s rise from poverty, but that this fact would make the game far too easy. _Oh well, perhaps next time._ “Thank you,” David said, pulling one out and sniffing it slightly. Mycroft offered a double bladed cutter for the cap and then lite the end as the man puffed and then did the same for his.

With another nod of appreciation, David started the conversation. “Forgive me for asking but why did you request a meeting with me? I mean, not to be rude, but I know who you are, Mr. Hol-Mycroft.”

“And who am I?” Mycroft asks lightheartedly, taking a small token puff, watching the brown paper turn orange and then retreat into ash.

David laughed nervously. “You’re Mycroft Holmes…’The Government.’” When Mycroft chuckled, the other man seemed to relax a bit.

“I see the rumors have grown in the last ten years. I can assure you I am not ‘The Government,’ however, I do understand the benefit of having friends within all different facets of said Government. I’m sure you can understand the importance of friends, David.” Mycroft said, tilting his head forward slightly, fixing the man with a questioning gaze.

“Of course, but…I guess what I mean to say is why would you feel the need to be my-erm…’friend?’” _Oh this is good. Perhaps I won’t have to use any threats on this one. Lord knows, Mr. Calloway has a few demons in his closet._

“Forty years old, married, two children and still you are managing to maintain a steady ascent in your career in our Government. With that kind of tenacity I can help you get where you want to be; that is, if we can come to some kind of arrangement.” Mycroft offered, placing the cigar in front of his lips but not taking a drag.

“Arrangement?” David nods slowly, realization dawning on him and he looks away, mulling it over. _Sharp man._ “I’m pretty sure I know what kind of ‘arrangement’ you’re talking about, Mr. Holmes,” _ah, so we are back to Mr. Holmes, I see. Perhaps this will be fun after all._

“Do you?”

“Everyone does, it’s no secret. Not to anymore, at least not after DI Lestrade ‘stepped down’ a couple of months ago. Word spreads quickly, Mr. Holmes. You of all people should know that.” David scoffed, putting out his half smoked cigar roughly in the ash tray on Mycroft’s desk. _So our boy has teeth? Well, I guess anyone who abandons their pregnant girlfriend is tougher than they look._

“I see,” Mycroft said, his features turning tight as he put out his own cigar, thankful for the small relief. “You still have not answered my question, Mr. Calloway.”

“I don’t believe you asked one,” David said, crossing one leg over his thigh, exposing a black socks and a hint of pale skin on his calf. The shift was dramatic, revealing that Mycroft had been somewhat played by the other man who tried to appear weaker then he really was. It was an amateur mistake and one Mycroft seemed to be making more and more of as his over confidence in his status got the better of him. If the man thought he was ready to play, however, the elder Holmes would gladly indulge.

“Of course, how forgetful of me. My question was, Mr. Calloway, are you willing to establish a quid pro quo relationship? Is that clear enough or perhaps you would prefer something in writing?”

“No,” the man said, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket.

“No?” was all Mycroft could say, confused and a tad frustrated at how the meeting had taken a turn for the worst. _And now I smell like ash for nothing. Pity._

“I know how this works, Mr. Holmes. You make ‘friends’ with people who are trying to make their way up in the world. You give them a foot hold, a few favors until they finally reach a position of authority and then you ask for you favors, which I must say come at a much higher cost than I am willing to pay. So yes, my answer to your offer is no, I do not want your help just so I can be threatened in ten years because I question you. Thank you for the cigar and good day, Mr. Holmes.” With that, David strode out of Mycroft’s office, leaving the man confused and intrigued all at the same time. Yes, this man would go far in his career and Mycroft would use him even if it required a bit of…force.

**One year later**

It was ten o’clock in the evening, Mycroft had finished a lovely dinner for one and was now sitting in his home office, looking at a picture of a young woman wearing an apron and hat. He had come to know her very well over the past month, Mary Morstan; adoptive parents Lawrence and Kerry Morstan and biological child of David Calloway. The same David Calloway who was in the papers every day and the ‘talk of the town’ so to speak when it came to the higher-ups. It was time to make his move, Mycroft knew, and Mary would be the perfect pressure point to get the other man under his thumb.

It only took one day after Anthea mailed David a manila folder filled with pictures of Mary for the man to come barging into Mycroft’s office.

“What is the meaning of this?” Calloway said, throwing three black and white photos of Mary onto Mycroft’s desk.

“Ah, hello David, I see you received my package,” Mycroft said nonchalant. He reorganized the pictures, stacking them neatly and then placing them on the opposite side of the desk.

“Don’t play coy with me, Mr. Holmes, I know what you’re playing at and if you think you can threaten me you are sadly mistaken,” the man growled and Mycroft noted how he avoided looking at the pictures, intentionally averting his gaze. _Interesting. Is that shame I’m smelling, Mr. Calloway?_

“Am I?”

“If you try to blackmail me, I’ll-“

“You will what? Go to the Yard, your superiors, who might I ask would you go to, David? I have many, many friends, Mr. Calloway and as it stands, my offer is still on the table for your acceptance of our mutual arrangement.” Mycroft kept his gaze icy as he pushed the pictures directly in front of the man, who was still standing with his hands on his hips; an overt display of confidence that Mycroft saw little use in, let alone intimidating.

When the other man finally sat down, Mycroft could feel the game shifting, which pained him a bit to know the most interesting game he’d played in a while was coming to an end. However, it would be delightful and most beneficial to have this man at beck and call when he needed him. “No,” Calloway said, taking Mycroft by surprise.

“I’m sorry?” Was all he could say in response, a touch of warning in his voice. Mycroft never made empty threats, although he usually never had to go through with them as the other party would give in, he would have gone through with each and every one. It seemed this time, sadly, his resolve would be tested and a young girl would have to be threatened in the process.

“You heard me. I will not be threatened by the likes of some old man who’s already has one foot in the grave. I have friends too Mr. Holmes and Mary, this girl,” he pointed down at the pictures but still didn’t look down at them, “she means nothing to me. I’m afraid your pawn to blackmail me has no clout.”

“I see, well, if that is how you feel Mr. Calloway then by all means do what you feel is necessary. I’m sure the press would like to know how you abandoned Mary’s mother who just so happened to die in child birth. Tragic tale, one that would make front page, no?”

“I was a child!” Calloway shouted, the pride and stubbornness he created his shell of confidence with was starting to crack right before Mycroft’s eyes.

“I’m sure the public will understand,” Mycroft added, a knowing smile on his face. Then, something changed on the other man’s face as a smug smile drew upon it.

“I didn’t know,” Calloway said, lifting his chin slightly, “I started to look into my past and oh, look what I found!” he said in a shocked voice. “How wonderful would that sound, father and daughter reunited after all these years of searching. Now that, Mr. Holmes, is a good headline,” Calloway crossed his arms over his chest, rather pleased with himself. _Oh my dear boy, you have no idea how dangerous poking the wolf with a stick is, do you?_

“Ah,” was all Mycroft said, leaning back in his chair and smiling. “It seems you have everything worked out then, don’t you? After all, who am I to get involved in a family reunion?”

Calloway stared at him for long time, trying his best to intimidate the man who had nerves of steel. It was all quite amusing but Mycroft had other business to attend to and was already planning on how to keep Mary on ice until he needed to use his pawn to push her biological father over the edge, claiming his sweet victory yet again. Mycroft just smiled at the man who thought he had the advantage by thinking three moves ahead when in reality, he was two years and three moves behind already.

**Present Day**

“You’re serious?” John asked him after the story was finished. The boy had watched him intently, his hand shaking and nose flaring every time Mycroft mentioned Mary’s name.

“Yes,” Mycroft said, finishing his glass of scotch and twirling the tumbler in his hand to watch the rays of light reflect through the crystal.

“You…so you send me to ‘keep her on ice,’” John said, dropping the tone in his voice to mock Mycroft’s. “And then…then you fucking use your brother to try and kill her!”

“Yes,” Mycroft said again, thinking it best to let the boy vent and come to accept what had already happened and what would happen. It was a hard decision at the time he made it, of course, it was his little brother after all but in the end it was the solution with the most positives. Calloway would be exposed for who he truly was upon Mary’s death, Sherlock was clean about his kills, and finally John would realize the lengths the younger Holmes would go to, thus keeping John tucked in right where he was most valuable…by Sherlock’s side.  

“Why would you do that to Sherlock? Your own brother? What the fuck is wrong with you,” John shouted, the small vein in his neck popping out. It amazed Mycroft how the young man was more concerned about Sherlock rather than how much he was used himself. At that moment, Mycroft knew he’d made the right choices. John would keep Sherlock out of trouble, sating whatever beast lay inside his brother and the best part was, it would be of the his own free will.

“John, you have to understand that sometimes things need to be done in order to secure-“

“You don’t have to kill her,” John spat, “just…just make her disappear like Sherlock tried to do to me. You don’t have to…” his words trailed off again, his face contorting in anger and grief. Honestly, the thought had never crossed his mind; to fake her death and then cover it up? No, that would leave too much loose ends and paperwork, making Sherlock’s method was the quickest and cleanest.

“Things are a lot more complicated than-“

“Things?” John interrupted, scooting forward in his seat, “things like having your own brother murder an innocent woman because her father wouldn’t do what you told him to do? Holy…holy shite! Let me out of the car, let me out right now!” John growled, reaching for the handle to open up the door while the car was still moving.

“John, please, I need you to calm down. I’m not going to hurt you,” Mycroft explained, nodding at Anthea who had turned around in her seat, preparing to Taser John if he got too agitated. That wouldn’t be necessary though, he was sure whatever was needed, Mycroft could provide to make John see that fighting what was planned from the moment he talked to Sherlock was useless. He shook his head at his PA, resulting in her rolling up the window connecting the front and back seat.

“How the fuck can I believe you!” John grunted when the door wouldn’t budge and he realized there were no locks on the inside. “If I don’t do what you say are you going to kill me too? Get the fuck away from me!” To Mycroft’s surprise the boy wasn’t curling himself into the corner of the car. Instead, John was sitting up straight, his shoulders squared towards the older man like he was ready for a fight.

“John-“

“Does Sherlock even know?” John asked out of the blue, his fist clenched and his pupils blown.

“No and I will ask you to leave the explanation up to me, John,” Mycroft said, putting his glass down by the decanter, preparing himself for what the boy’s body language was transmitting. _Please don’t, John._

“The letters…it was you, it was you all along manipulating and moving us around like little toy soldiers for whatever benefited you the most.” His voice was quiet now, dangerously quiet. “I bet you’ve never even had to get your hands dirty, have you? Buying people off, manipulating their weaknesses…you’re a-you’re a…” John trailed off, looking down and away then when his eyes went to the glass in his hand, Mycroft moved.

The glass whizzed by his head, clipping the side of his cheek as the elder Holmes shifted to his right. With youth on his side, John was faster and more agile, however, being in the small battlefield of a car, Mycroft had the advantage of his MI6 training and heavier weight. He’d hoped it wouldn’t have come to this but before John got into the car, Mycroft had given it a 50/50 chance of going either way. This would change his plans and sadly, because he couldn’t control his temper, the poor boy wouldn’t be able to see Mary.

It took only a moment after John launched a fist at him until the boy had his face pressed into the leather seat, one arm pulled behind his back, and Mycroft’s knee planted heavily over the young man’s lower spine. “Get off me!” John screamed, squirming and struggling enough to dislodge his hand and flail to reach back and hit the man on top of him. “Help!” With one quick move, Mycroft reached behind him, thankful for the small vicinity, and grabbed a capped syringe he’d hoped he would never have to use, let alone on John. Pulling down the waist band on John’s trousers, he pressed his full weight on the bucking torso to still him as much as possible and then stuck the needle into the fleshy part of his bottom.

As the sedative took effect, Mycroft lifted himself off the calming body. “You’re alright, John, you’re alright,” he kept saying when he could see the boy was still panicked even though all he could do now was twitch until finally his blue eyes closed and his body went still. Mycroft knocked his knuckles against the glass leading to the front seat then began rolling John’s limp body over on his side, rubbing small soothing circles on his back.

“Sir?” Anthea said, turning her head around to look at them.

“Change of plans. We are not going to the hospital anymore, please take us to the Estate.” Mycroft ordered, sighing as his plan hadn’t turned out like he wished. However, this one would do just fine and he would be able to explain everything to John in a more relaxed setting and then Sherlock would show up and take the boy home. “And please tell Bryan and Homer we will not be coming to the hospital and I expect constant updates on Mary’s status. Also, I’ll be waiting for a call from Mr. Calloway, Anthea, please send him my sympathies.” His PA nodded once, then went straight to typing on her phone.

Mycroft pulled out his mobile as well and began typing while John’s head rested on his lap.

**Mycroft: Meet me at my house in two hours**

**Sherlock: Is John okay?**

**Mycroft: Yes, he is feeling much better and will be waiting for you there**

**Sherlock: I know what u r up to**

Mycroft sighed, rubbing his hand through John’s hair instead of his own. Of course Sherlock would find out something was going on, he was too smart not to; but did he know the whole story, was the million dollar question. “Anthea?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Please pull up my brother’s whereabouts on the CCTV and stream it to my mobile. Thank you.” This would be very interesting indeed.

**Mycroft: Oh?**

**Sherlock: I’ll meet you at your place. John better be unharmed**

**Mycroft: Of course**

“Mr. Holmes?” Anthea called back to him, “he’s still at Baker Street.”

“Thank you.” _Hmmm, what are you up to, brother mine?_ Whatever his little brother claimed to know didn’t matter anymore. What’s done was done and Mycroft had won, just like he always had and always would.


	8. I Gave you All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's POV directly after chapter seven. (Re-posted to edit out small error)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! This is John's last chapter and there will only be one more Sherlock chapter to finish the story off. 
> 
> WARNING: Please check the updated tags. I apologize if it ruins a bit of the shock and awe for you, but the latter part of this chapter is very, very dark. This is a friendly warning so please be prepared to get kicked repeatedly in the feels.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter(:

Chapter 8 – I Gave you All

**And you rip it from my hands**

**And you swear it's all gone**

**And you rip out all I had**

**Just to say that you've won, you've won**

**Well, now you've won**

**But I gave you all**

**I gave you all**

**I gave you all**

**\--- Mumford and Sons; I Gave You All**

           

This wasn’t the first time John woke up feeling like someone put his head in a vice and shook it around for a while. Once on his eighteenth birthday when his mates took him out and he woke up naked in a bathtub with pizza clogging up the drain, while the other time was at age fourteen and quite similar to the predicament he was in at the moment. He had been drugged, John knew, but where he was, well that was a completely different story.

He was in a bed, that much was obvious, but whose bed, he didn’t know. As his thoughts started coming through the throbbing in his head, however, John had a horrible feeling that he knew exactly where he was and how he got there. _Mycroft, you son of a bitch._ The bedroom was large, almost larger than John and Mary’s entire flat… _Mary! Oh God, I’m too late._ Before John took in the rest of his surroundings, he leapt out of the king sized bed with adrenaline pumping through his veins. The drugs hadn’t worn completely off though and John found his knees buckling and his head spinning until he was a crumpled up heap on the floor.

“Shite,” he whispered when the loud thud from his body hitting the hard wood triggered the sound of footsteps outside the door. He didn’t know what to do, this kind of stuff wasn’t supposed to happen to normal people. _Normal? My normalcy was taken away from me five years ago. Now I’m just as crazy as these guys._ The only though that ran through his head was Mary, who he needed to make sure was safe. She was the only innocent one in this situation and he’d pulled her into it, staining his hands the bloodiest of all.

Thinking quickly, but none to wisely, John scurried over to the door, pinning himself to the adjacent wall. Whoever came in, _hopefully Mycroft,_ John could sneak up behind them and knock his captor unconscious. _It’ll work, it’ll work, just stay calm and wait for him to get far enough into the room._ Slowly, the door opened with a quiet squeak of the hinges and John steadied himself to run or fight. “John, are you alright?” It was Mycroft’s voice, which in that instant, John second guessed his plan of escape. _This guy used his own brother to kill someone for political gain…holy shite, what am I doing here?_

When John saw the man dressed in a white dress shirt and charcoal trousers come into the room, he pounced. The only fight John had ever been in was at a pub, which wasn’t even started by him but by one of his mates who was chatting up another bloke’s girl. He had landed quite a few good punches on a man who was much bigger and taller but in reality, the other guy was so drunk he probably saw three John’s as they fought. That’s why, as soon as his chest hit Mycroft’s back to tackle the older man, John had no idea what was happening as he was flipped completely over the man’s body. He landed on the wood floor with a loud thud as all the air was knocked out of him.

John gasped and flailed like a fish on the dock, his eyes and mouth both wide to take in what was happening. It hurt and it was terrifying not being able to breathe for those few seconds but the part that really made the teenager panic was Mycroft standing above him, shaking his head sadly. Two hands came between his arms and ribs, wrapping around to clasp together behind John’s back. Then, he was lifted into the air, his feet dragging slightly until he was put back into the bed, still gasping and clutching at his chest. His lungs slowly expanded, working much needed oxygen back through his body as John finally came back to himself.

Mycroft was perched on the side of the bed and had covered John back up to the waste, which the young man was thankful for as someone took it upon themselves to rid him of his jeans, socks, and trainers. “Just breath,” Mycroft told him, placing a heavy hand over John’s chest to feel the slowing up and down movement, “good.”

“How did I get here?” John asked, afraid that he already knew the answer.

“I brought you here,” Mycroft offered, making John want to laugh at the obvious omission. _Why don’t I remember you bringing me here, huh? Did you borrow a stash of drugs from your brother?_

“Where is Mary?”

Mycroft sighed, telling John everything he needed to know. Sherlock killed her, Sherlock killed her so they could be together. _It is my fault. If I hadn’t-_

“It is not your fault, John,” Mycroft said, as if he could read John’s thoughts. “You didn’t know. How could you?” John tried to pull away from the hand still resting on his chest, earning him two soft pats and then it was withdrawn back to Mycroft’s side. “No, you were nothing but a bystander in this; although, I must apologize and thank you at the same time for being available to assist in my plan. You have proven to be quite valuable, John, and I thank you for that.”

 _What?_ John stared at the man, wide eyed and confused at being thanked for acting as a refrigerator to keep his next victim ready and waiting. “You’re not serious? This…this is a joke, right?” John tried to laugh but something inside him told him there was nothing to joke about. This was as real as life got and John was stuck right in the middle of it, the roast pig in the center of the table with a big apple stuck in his mouth.

“This is very serious, John and I would ask that you listen to me very carefully so you can make your decision before Sherlock arrives.”

 _How in the hell am I supposed to even look at him now?_ He watched the man sitting next to him, amazed, not at the lack of emotion, but the lack of empathy he seemed to have for everyone else except Sherlock and John. He didn’t care, he honestly and truly didn’t care and couldn’t comprehend why John was in shock and loathed the Holmes name. “No,” John said, sitting up a bit in the bed and crossing his arms over his chest. He tried not to look like a pouting child but the huge bed and sneer on his lips did just that.

“No? No, what?” Mycroft looked at his watch.

“What makes you think I’d want to see Sherlock, much less be with him,” John shouted to cover the pain he felt. Losing Mary, that was hard. Losing Sherlock, was possibly even harder but the fact that everything was his fault, people were dead _AGAIN!_ because of him. Jim Moriarty, whose shadow haunted him at the fringes of his mind day and night would now have company and that…that, was too much for John to bear. He had to get away from these people who insisted he was a wonderful asset or the fucking angel of Baker Street because all that had ever given him was bloody hands and panic attacks. John realized he was the petrol and Sherlock was the fire _and the only way to put the fire out is to get rid its fuel source._

“I’m afraid that is no longer an option, John,” Mycroft put a hand on the teenager’s shoulder. If John didn’t know any better, he would have thought there was sympathy in the man’s eyes. “My brother is too smitten with you and I fear your absence in his life would cause more harm than good.”

“I’m not a little boy anymore, Mycroft,” he laced the name with as much venom as he could muster, and he had gallons of it, “you can’t trick me into staying. I’ll contact the police, find one that you don’t have hooks in…I’ll run away, whatever it takes but I am NOT going to be your pawn and I am NOT going to live with a murderer!” D _amn, that felt good._ John sighed, feeling a small weight lifted off from speaking his mind.

“I believe you are a murderer too, John,” Mycroft said. No hesitation, no remorse, nothing but a sword wrapped in ice that he jabbed mercilessly into John’s heart. The lava inside John’s body, which had been building up for five years was thick and burning, ready to explode, ripping off the top of the volcano with it and obliterating everything in its path. Right now, it was Mycroft that John wanted to punch, to kick, to bite, to do anything and everything to just prove that whatever the man said meant nothing. However, John did none of those things and honestly, he couldn’t find it within himself to even lift his arms, as if a giant boulder had been rolled on top of him.

“I-“ John looked down at his hands gripping the edge of the duvet.

“I know it wasn’t your fault,” Mycroft continued, his voice still frustratingly calm while John was erupting inside. “You did what you had to do and I will be forever in your debt for saving my brother. However, you and Sherlock are no different in this respect of ‘doing what you have to.’”

“Sherlock didn’t ‘have’ to kill Mary and you didn’t have to manipulate him into doing it!” John wished he could’ve kept his voice controlled like the man next to him, hide his weakness, but it just wasn’t possible. Mycroft’s calmness was evident of how many times he’d talked about murder and manipulation; something John would never understand.

Mycroft sighed, “yes, yes we did have to do it. We both had our own reasons, yes, but in the end there was no other choice. Sherlock cannot live without you John, you know this, you’ve seen it, and Mary’s death is tangible evidence of his…obsession. He will have you, John, and it is up to you how many more innocent people have to die before you let him have you.”

John knew he had a martyr complex, or at least that’s what he’d been told over and over by every single therapist and Mary, _Mary._ The one question they never answered though was what to do if something really was his responsibility. They kept insisting everything wasn’t his fault, the responsibly fell on Sherlock, not him…but it didn’t. If he had the choice to prevent others from dying, how was that not his responsibility? How was the blood on his hands, the blackness on his heart, any different from the one who pulled the trigger?

“You have to swear you will never use Sherlock or me for your dirty work ever again, or I swear to God, Mycroft, I will stop at nothing to expose you for what you really are,” John said, his voice sounding far away, almost not his own in a way. “Even if I die, you will not use Sherlock as a killing machine,” John added, again, he didn’t know why the words came from his mouth. He briefly wondered if this was what it felt like to speak in tongues or perhaps being hypnotized, letting his subconscious take over when his fragile mind could handle the world no longer. No, John Watson was a man with everything to lose and only one bargaining chip…himself, and he would use it for all it was worth.

“Are you making threats now, John?” Mycroft actually smiled at him, although John was sure it was an indulgent one if anything.

“No threats, just promises,” he added, feeling as empty inside as his words.

“Alright,” Mycroft agreed, “you are the best thing that has ever happened to my brother and I am willing to let you two be for the moment. However, I will still be very much a part of my brother’s life and you would do well not to stick your nose in places it does not belong, John.” _Now that’s a threat._

“What does Sherlock know?” _I really don’t care._

“That he killed Mary and although I wanted her dead too, he understands that everything works out better when we both get what we want. I get David Calloway, Sherlock gets you, and you get him, everyone is happy.” _Everyone except Mary._

“John?!” _Speak of the Devil._ “John?!” The deep voice shouted from somewhere downstairs. Loud footfalls echoed towards the room until a very frantic and worried looking detective was standing in the door way. “Are you okay,” Sherlock asked, striding over to the other side of the bed, his long legs allowing only four steps until he was next to John. The older man was on his knees, hovering over John, who could actually see the storm of distraught inside those silver eyes. In an instant, Sherlock leaned over, burying his face into John’s neck and wrapping his arms underneath as if he was praying or worshiping to a deity.

“I’m alright, Sherlock,” he said to the grown man huddling on his chest, clinging to him for dear life. Sherlock felt heavier than normal but John knew it was only his imagination because the man, although larger than John, was still nothing but a twig.

“Did he hurt you? Mycroft,” Sherlock shot his head up, clipping John’s chin slightly, “what did you do to him?”

“I did nothing, Sherlock, your John is fine,” Mycroft bowed his head and stood up from the bed. “I shall leave you two to catch up. I’m sure John has missed you very much, Sherlock.” With that, Mycroft left the room, leaving John alone with the man who murdered his girlfriend and was now working his fingers under the elastic of the teenager’s pants.

“I missed you too, John,” Sherlock said, his voice breathless as he threw a leg over to straddle John’s body. Both their shirts were pulled off instantly by quick thin fingers and John felt himself panicking underneath the tall dark figure.

“Sherlock-Sh-Sherlock, wait,” John protested, pushing his hands against the pale chest. He couldn’t do it, how could he ignore that dark pit in his stomach, that big finger pointing down at him, accusing him, mocking him until the teenager’s mind exploded into a million different pieces. Then, if he did explode Sherlock would surly pick up the pieces, putting him back together in as an even more broken man than he already was. “I can’t.”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, lust turned to confusion, then panic, then lust again and John knew he had no choice but to let the darkness have him. “Yes you can,” the man said, diving back in to suck on his throat and then moving up to John’s lips, holding him by his short hair as the life was sucked out through his throat. “Just let me take care of you,” Sherlock whispered into his ear, sending shivers down John’s spine, making him arch his back into the figure above.

Sherlock was like a wild animal that had been starved for months; ripping the rest of their clothes off and rolling on to his back, bringing John to lie on top. How he could feel claustrophobic while lying over someone, John didn’t know, but some form of anxiety kept gnawing at the back of his head. Before he could push himself up and away from the burning body, a hand slammed down on his back, knocking a bit of air out of his lungs, while the other navigated to his arse, immediately finding his opening. “Mine,” he thought he heard Sherlock growl under his breath, making the teen still his squirming and let the finger enter him.

It was dry, too dry, and when Sherlock decided to add two fingers, John protested only to have teeth latch onto the muscle between his neck and shoulder. “Sherlock! Let go!” John shouted, pushing away but the fingers inside him never left and now he was rolled over onto his back with his legs pinned to his chest, helpless and honestly, quite frightened.

Finally, his pathetic whimpers slowed the other man’s movements until only the two fingers moved in and out, stretching John. “I’ve waited too long, John, my John. You have no idea how much I need you right now. Tell me,” he breathed, leaning in to whisper against John’s ear; the insistent in and out urging the teen to answer. “Tell me you want me,” he added a third finger and John grabbed ahold of the sheets in one hand and Sherlock’s forearm in the other. Thoughts and images of Sherlock hovering over Mary’s body in his nightmare kept replaying over and over in his head, seeing the blood, the grin on Sherlock’s face until there was nothing left but horror and fear.

Suddenly, he was broken out of his nightmare by the dull pain of Sherlock pushing himself inside. “Tell me,” he growled, thrusting too deep too quick to get his point across. “I killed for you John, just like you killed for me,” John groaned when he felt Sherlock’s bullocks brush against him as he fully seated himself. “Because you love me, that’s why, and I love you, John.” The words were static, background noise, just like the thrusts and painting, it all meant nothing. The worst part was though, that no matter how much he told himself that it was nothing, in reality John hadn’t felt this warm, this whole in years and that thought made the teen feel sick. _How, how in the hell can I be enjoying this? I’m as sick as he is and now there’s no going back._

John bucked his hips when a shock of pleasure pulsed though him as Sherlock struck his prostate. The pain was still there though, still stretching and burning but John decided that was good, he shouldn’t be experiencing pleasure when Mary was buried in the ground because he didn’t wait for Sherlock. “Stop thinking, John,” Sherlock thrust again, harder and deeper than he ever thought possible. “You don’t have to think anymore. Do you know why?” He asked and John felt the pleasure continue to build, his hard cock bouncing up and down on his belly from being rocked by Sherlock’s hips. “Tell me, John, tell me why?” Suddenly there was a hand around his cock but not stroking, no, holding the base to prevent him from release.

“Sherlock!” John shouted, bucking his hips again. He was in no mood for games, especially not ones where he had to answer questions that he wanted to burn and never have to look at again.

“Say it,” Sherlock growled again, his voice pained but demanding as his brutal thrusts continued.

“I-I-I’m,” his voice was accented by each thrust, “I’m yours…I’m yours. I’m yours!” John screamed, letting all his anger into the words as his back arched and he came hard into Sherlock’s hand. Soon enough, he felt the murderer still, above him, buried deep and coming inside of John, pulsing the same seed that had been planted inside him so long ago.

“You’re mine,” he said, exhausted. Sherlock pulled out and flopped down next to John, draping a possessive arm over the boy’s chest. “Missed you,” Sherlock whispered, curling up along John’s side like a sated cat. This was why Mycroft did what he did, manipulated and practically threatened John into staying with his brother. John was the only one who could calm that storm inside the detective’s head but he couldn’t…he just couldn’t handle knowing what he would become if he stayed with Sherlock. After only a few months of knowing Sherlock, he’d shot a man. What would happen in another five years?

John could feel the come still inside him, oozing out onto the sheets and he decided to make the only decision that would truly be his. No manipulations, no bribing, no threats, it would be only him and the water. John slowly pried himself from the sleeping detective’s grasp, amazed at how quickly the man had fallen asleep. When he made it to the bathroom connected to the bedroom, John quietly closed the door and turned on the tap to the large tub.

This was it, he had tried five years ago and was thwarted because of some stupid ulterior motive, making Mycroft think John was useful. Then, they convinced him it wasn’t the answer, lying to him like telling a child Santa Claus really does bring the presents. They told him but everyone knew it wasn’t true; things never get better when you’re stuck inside a well. John had spent all that time treading water, fighting to keep his head above the surface with the illusion that he could reach the top and escape. There was only one escape and that was to stop caring about everybody else at the top of the well and join those he’d killed at the bottom.

“I’ve given you enough,” John said as he sat down in the tub and let the warm water consume his body, though, he really didn’t know who he was talking to. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered now, and that was peace. As his head went under the water, the whole world went silent and that was peace. He struggled, his instincts still trying to stop him just as Mycroft had done, but soon the pain was gone, the water went still, and that was peace.

However, the Gods or Sherlock, whoever had more power over his fate, wouldn’t let him get off that easy, John thought as he felt strong hands on his chest and cold tile pressed against his back. _Killers don’t get off this easy. Well, it was worth a try._ John coughed and expelled bath water onto the floor. Breath from Sherlock, from the one who was always there, filled his lungs, forcing life back into him and his chest to rise.  

Sherlock was there, whispering to him, touching his hair and looking into his mouth to make sure ‘his boy’ was okay. “I’m here, shhh, I’m here, John. I won’t let you go,” the voice kept saying, offering the only comfort John seemed to have now. John knew this was his only shot, fool me once was all it would take for Sherlock never to let him out of his sight again. Perhaps that was his fucked up subconscious’ plan all along; maybe he was even more manipulative than Mycroft? John had no clue but the warmth he felt from the hand on his chest and hair was real. _At least now I won’t be alone. After all, a candle always has the darkness to keep it company._ And that…was the only peace he would have.      


	9. Sigh No More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you all so much for the continued support for this fic. I really enjoyed writing it and I hope you enjoyed, or were wonderfully creeped out by John and Sherlock's tale. 
> 
> This is going to be the last plot driven part of the series, however, I will most likely add little one or two chapter entries every now and then showing how Sherlock manipulates John into staying with him throughout their 'relationship.' These won't be regular updates though.
> 
> Thank you all for reading(:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV after the events of chapter eight.

Chapter 9 – Sigh No More

Sherlock wasn’t asleep when John went into the bathroom, nor was he ignorant to what the boy was about to do to himself. _Try to do to himself, that is._ He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this but sadly, John’s would have to learn he could never escape; that even in death, Sherlock would follow him. That’s what he was there for after all, to teach him and when his John would fall, Sherlock would pull him back from the brink and swaddle the boy in his arms until there was no doubt left in that little blonde head that he belonged there.           

It was John’s face that betrayed his pain, or the lack thereof perhaps, which spoke more volumes of his state of mind. There seemed to be too many emotions, too many thoughts running around in John’s mind, which Sherlock could relate to wholeheartedly. So now, it was his turn to provide his John with what the boy provided him with, peace of mind.

Sherlock got out of bed slowly, listening to the sounds behind the bathroom door. There was sloshing and a few echoes of skin rubbing against the porcelain until finally, silence took over the room. In a flash, Sherlock threw open the door, which thankfully Mycroft had disabled the locks to, and saw John lying motionless under the water. He looked so beautiful, Sherlock thought, a slight smile coming to his face as his eyes took in the naked limp form and the serine face. The water added a duplicity effect, making John shimmer below the slight waves caused by his struggle. _Your fight is what makes you beautiful John._

Without any more hesitation, Sherlock reached into the water, grabbing John under the shoulders and under the hips to pull him on to the tile floor. The body landed with a soft splat from the water and then Sherlock began his assessment of John’s condition. “Oh no you don’t, John,” he whispered when he placed his ear over the boy’s mouth and found no breath sounds. He put his lips to John’s, pinching the nose lightly, and then pushed oxygen from his own body into the other’s lungs. Sherlock had never been much for symbolism but the idea of breathing new life into his John was the most euphoric feeling in the world. When breath still did not come, Sherlock began compressions on John’s slick chest, his hands slipping every other push. “Come back to me, John,” Sherlock ordered and as if obeying immediately, a gurgling sound came up from his boy’s throat, followed by coughing and finally the baptismal water from John’s lungs.

The coughing and hacking lasted a good five minutes, John, lying on his side now, would shiver and convulse as his body was dispelling the water. Sherlock lay down behind him, ensuring John stayed on his side and rubbed continuous circles over the wet back, hoping to ease the pain. “That’s it, that’s it,” he kept repeating until there was nothing left for John to cough up and they just stayed there while Sherlock wrapped an arm around, pulling his boy back towards him to keep them both warm on the cold tile. “I’m here, shhh, I’m here, John. I won’t let you go,” he whispered into the wet hair, feeling as the shivers slowed down a bit.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft’s voice came from the bedroom, feigning concern for John’s sake. It was obvious his brother knew something like this was going to happen, which was why he made sure the locks were disabled and there were no razor blades or narcotics for John to access. “Sherlock? Oh, John,” he sighed, a touch of actual worry fell on the older man’s face when he saw the naked limp form in his little brother’s arms. “Get him off the floor, Sherlock, he’ll catch cold like that.”

Sherlock hummed his agreement but stayed still a moment longer, enjoying how the water surrounding John’s body amplified the feeling of his steady heartbeat. “I’m all the warmth he needs,” Sherlock murmured into John’s neck, kissing the along the hair line.

Mycroft sighed, reaching over to pull down an extra-large plush blue towel. “Perhaps, but I’m sure he’s in shock, which does not make the tile floor and a wet body ideal. Come, let’s put him on the bed. Devon is preparing some tomato soup, which should do some good for his throat.” Mycroft was right, the water on John’s skin was already starting to turn cold and Sherlock knew some nice warm soup would help warm him back up.

“Alright,” Sherlock said, standing up slowly, shivering when the fresh air hit the wet spot on his stomach. It was only then that he realize he was just as naked as John and grabbed another towel from the rack, wrapping it securely around his waist. A raspy whimper came from John’s throat as Sherlock tucked his hands under the boy’s armpits, lifting him to his feet. “Shh shh shh, you’re safe now, I won’t let anyone hurt you, John,” he cooed, as Mycroft gently died off John’s legs, torso, and arms; then, wrapped it around his shoulders. Once his brother was done, Sherlock lifted John off the ground, thankful the teenager was still on the smaller side of his age group’s height and weight.

He lay John down on the bed, scooting in behind him in a half reclined position to let the boy’s back rest on his chest. God, did everything feel perfect. The warmth on his chest, the pressure from John’s arse on his cock, but most of all, the serenity in his mind was more than blissful. He had killed many, some innocent, some not, but they had all died by his hand with one purpose, which was now in his arms. The blood had stained his hands, his heart, and his mind but now…now none of that mattered because he had what he needed, what was his.

“Nooo,” John moaned, his voice watery. He squirmed a bit in Sherlock’s arms, but the vice grip over his chest offered little movement.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you,” Sherlock ran a comforting hand through the blonde hair, feeling as if he was touching the sun itself.

“Why?” John’s eyes were tired but they stared purposefully up at Mycroft, who was sitting awkwardly at the foot of the bed. Then, he turned his neck, craning to look up at Sherlock. “Why did you pull me out,” he coughed a few times, though his gaze never faltered.

“Because you’re mine, John, and I love you,” he smiled down at him but was met with a terrified gaze and more struggling. “No, no, I’m not going to hurt you, I’ve never wanted to hurt you, love.” Sherlock squeezed a bit tighter across John’s chest, holding him close, wondering if it was possible to transmit those feelings through touch alone. “I know I hurt you, I know, but I did it for you own good…for us. All I want to do is protect you, John, but you need to let me,” Sherlock said, his voice a bit more stern to get his point across.

With perfect timing, Devon, Mycroft’s butler, came into the room with a tray full of soup and toast. “Ah, thank you Devon,” Mycroft said, motioning the older man to set the tray on top of John’s lap, and consequently Sherlock’s as well.

“I’m not hungry,” John pouted but knew better than to try and shift away too much with a hot bowl of tomato soup hovering over his most valuable, and very naked, parts.

“You need to eat, John,” Sherlock chastised, moving his arm around to pick up the spoon. He scooped up some of the steaming red liquid and brought it around John’s head so he could blow on it before feeding it to his lover. “Open up,” he kissed the top of John’s ear, holding the cooled spoon up to his lips. “Good boy,” he praised when John hesitantly took the spoon in his mouth. Sherlock recalled how responsive John was to praise and all he had to do was pull up that need, which had been buried down deep so no one would know. _Everybody but me, John._

Sherlock fed John the soup slowly, whispering in his ear, nipping at his neck a few times, unable to control himself now that he had John broken and ready to be put back together. Spoonful after spoonful, John slowly started to relax into the embrace, whether in defeat, exhaustion, or perhaps seeking comfort, Sherlock didn’t know. “Sherlock?” he asked once the soup and half the toast was gone.

“Hmm?”

“The first time I talked to you, online I mean, did you…” John trailed off, pulling restlessly at the edge of the duvet. Sherlock let him have his moment, reminiscing about how they met, how perfect it was that fate had put them together. “You knew you were never going to let me go, didn’t you?” John asked, bringing a wolfish smile across the detectives face. It was funny, Sherlock mused, how easy it was too look back at a board game and see all the moves and mistakes that were made. However, what John couldn’t see, even as he analyzed all the decisions that led him to this point, was that he was still being manipulated. _Hindsight is twenty-twenty, but most are blind in the present. Luckily for me, my dear John, your kind nature blinds you more than most._

“From the moment I saw your face and heard your voice, John, I knew that you were mine.” John let his head lull to the side, looking over at the window longingly. Sherlock sighed and lifted the tray off John’s lap, handing it off to Mycroft who had been oddly silent through the entire exchange.

“You’re never going to let me go?” John asked, causing Sherlock to unconsciously make his grip over his boy’s torso tighter.

“Where would you go?” Mycroft finally chimed in, handing the tray off to Devon, who then scurried away. The elder Holmes turned back around, fixing John with a steady glare, which boded no argument.  

“You wouldn’t be able to go anywhere without thinking of me, would you John,” Sherlock grinned into the boy’s ear. He had planted himself so deep inside John’s heart, body, and mind that he could never escape Sherlock’s influence. Touches had turned to Ivy and thoughts to thorns, creating a barrier to keep his John’s mind from finding a way out.

“W-what have you done to me?” John trembled, knowing Sherlock was right about everything. Silent sobs came from the boy’s throat and a few stray tears traveled down his cheeks. Sherlock whipped them away on one cheek while he kissed the others off one by one.

“Just let me take care of you, John. I know that’s what you need, what you crave. Don’t try to deny it, you can’t hide from me, sweetheart,” Sherlock said, lifting John up a bit so he could scoot out from below. “I know what you need,” he leaned over, hovering over John’s naked body and pulled him into a deep kiss. _A little dopamine never hurt anybody._ It only took a moment of gentle licks and prodding with his tongue for John to finally, _finally,_ allow him access. “And I’m going to give it to you…so let me, John, just let me in,” Sherlock smiled, pulling back from the kiss to see John’s eyes closed and his lips slack.

“Although this reunion is lovely,” Mycroft interrupted, “I need to ensure John is going to be safe in your care brother and then I will leave you two to your business.”

“John will be fine, won’t you? I know you were just scared but now you don’t have to be, yeah? Your Sherlock’s here and you don’t have to worry anymore.” John’s brow furrowed slightly, his nose scrunching up in an almost pitiful look. The boy turned his gaze from Sherlock to Mycroft, then back but still remained silent. It was hard for him, Sherlock could tell, but in time and with proper guidance, John would come to accept and even love what was given to him.

“Be that as it may,” Mycroft added when John didn’t respond, “I have taken the liberty of sending a few of my men over to Baker Street to ensure both of you are safe and sound together. We wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt, now would we?” Sherlock knew he was good at threats, used them quite often actually, but his brother, well, let’s just say Mycroft was a very persuasive man.  

“We’ll be fine, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped, ready for his brother to leave them alone so he could show John just how much he belonged here. Talk was cheap and Sherlock knew the best way start John’s recovery was a good thorough fucking. Well, it was mostly for John’s recovery but also for the raging erection he’d had since John had been sitting in his lap. _What you do to me, John. I could never let you go._

Mycroft nodded his head, giving one more pointed glance at John and then left the room, closing the door behind him. He wondered what his brother had told John in the car, which was most likely the cause of those cold glares Mycroft always gave as some sort of threat. Though, Sherlock supposed it didn’t really matter and was pointless to fight. The elder Holmes was not to be trifled with, which Sherlock learned a long time ago and he was sure John would catch on soon if he already hadn’t. “How does your throat feel?” Sherlock asked, rubbing his fingers delicately over the tender skin along John’s neck. Goosebumps started to form under his touches, bringing another grin and more blood to his cock.

“It’s fine,” John whispered, still avoiding eye contact. “Sherlock I-“

“Shhh,” he quieted John’s protests with another kiss, caressing his tongue until finally there was some reciprocation. “That’s it,” he praised, moving his hand down to pull away his own towel and then John’s. “You don’t have to try John, you don’t have to think, you don’t have to worry,” Sherlock breathed, straddling over John’s legs and moving his kissing and sucking down to his belly button. John’s stomach muscles were tense, though not from arousal as his cock was still limp between his legs. _We’ll have to fix that, won’t we John._ “Give it to me,” he said, his mouth pressed against the light brown pubic hairs, inhaling the deep scent that was purely his John.

When he took the limp cock in his mouth, Sherlock heard John’s breathe catch and then the boy sighed. He started slow, increasing the pressure and how much he took in by increments until he had John just where he wanted him. Although John was much larger now, Sherlock could still fit him all the way inside his mouth, deep throating just a bit to push his nose into the patch of wiry hairs. “S-Sherlock, I can’t…” John moaned, writhing on the bed, confused at the battling going on between his want and need. That was the key, that was always the key with John, who wanted two different things his whole life and all Sherlock had to do was create a breeze and the boulder would tumble down the hill. Uncertainty was the soft flesh of the underbelly and Sherlock was the knife.

“It seems you already are, John,” Sherlock chuckled, licking playfully at the now hard cock and then nuzzling the pulled up bullocks. “I want you in me, John,” he whispered, starting to slowly open himself with one hand while he continued to hold down John’s hips and suck gently on the fully exposed gland. The warm flesh in his mouth was intoxicating, making him wish John would never come so he could just continue to experiment with how different licks and sucks brought about different reactions in John’s face. Alas, John was only human and still young so he would have to wait another day to test his boy’s endurance, perhaps when he had some handcuffs readily available.

When Sherlock had opened himself up a bit more, leaving his hole still plenty tight so he could feel every inch of John’s most precious cock inside him. While the teenager was still distracted and in a state of bliss from Sherlock’s ministrations, the older man lifted himself up and pressed the inside of his knees and calves against John’s hips. Slowly, he lowered himself down, holding onto John’s ridged cock while keeping his other hand on the boy’s chest to support himself but to also hold him in place. When he was fully seated, both men moaned, though John’s was more of a pained gasp as he squeezed his eyes together.

“Fuck,” John finally blurted out, no longer able to hold it in. It felt amazing, the burn and the fullness only his John could give him was all Sherlock needed in that moment. If he could sustain himself off of consuming John’s cries and moans, he would do it until the day they died. “Sherlock, please,” John moaned, his voice still raspy from his escape attempt. Warm hands were placed on his hips and Sherlock couldn’t contain himself anymore and rocked his hips in a swirling motion hitting his prostate on the first try. _It was like we were made for this, John. Perfect, just perfect._

One by one all of the light inside Sherlock’s mind palace flicked on, almost buzzing with the amount of electricity coursing through their circuits. Every push and pull, every fingernail mark, every scream of pleasure and torment, everything…Sherlock took everything, feeding it to the beasts inside him until they were satisfied enough to wonder back to the basement with full bellies and sated desires.

“Please, please, please,” John kept chanting, his eyes still shut and his face contorted in correlation with the deep pulsing Sherlock felt inside. Suddenly, John came with a shout, ramming his hips up into Sherlock, hitting his prostate just right. Sherlock grabbed his cock in hand, jerking a few times and then came over John, marking him repeatedly with white strips over his face, chest, and stomach. It was primal, in a way, but the thought of his own seed drying on his John’s skin along with the teen’s own seeping inside him made Sherlock want to howl.  

Sherlock lifted himself up, feeling the cold dampness as John’s limp member slid out of him. John was panting hard, unaware of the way the older man stared down at the come covered chest, hunger and possession coming off him in waves. Sherlock placed his hand on John’s stomach, rubbing in the drying seed, then scooping up a drop on the tip of his finger. He bent down, supporting his weight on an elbow on the other side of John’s chest and then held up his fingers to the teen’s lips. “Taste me, John,” Sherlock smiled at the confused and exhausted blue eyes.

John tentatively opened his lips, allowing Sherlock to insert the tips of his fingers and rub the come onto his warm tongue. Wiggling his tongue around aimlessly, John cleaned the fingers, sending another dangerous bout of lust straight to Sherlock’s cock. “Good boy,” he praised again, lying a gently kiss on John’s forehead. “Why don’t we have a quick nap before we shower, yeah? You’re wearing this old man out,” he laughed, recalling how he had texted those same words to John so long ago. _Nothing can keep us apart any longer, my John._  

“’Kay,” John whispered, his eyes still glazed over from the shock of almost drowning and the amazing orgasm. Sherlock sat up, shifting his legs to find John’s hands gripping painfully into his forearm so he couldn’t maneuver. “Don’t…don’t leave me,” John pleaded, his voice almost raising an entire octave in his desperation. _There’s my sweet boy._ Sherlock caressed John’s cheek, pleased to see the plates subtly shifting inside to accommodate the teen’s new life.

Without another word, Sherlock scooted back to spoon behind his John, holding him securely to his chest. The older man ran a soothing hand over John’s belly, feeling the small dry flecks of his come flake off at his touch.  Sherlock planted his nose in John’s hair, smelling his come there too, which sent a bodily shiver through him at the complete and utter possession. Wrapping his leg in between John’s, he felt the boy’s breath slowing down and Sherlock couldn’t help himself. He growled slightly and placed his tongue on the exposed nape in front of him and slowly licked a stripe along John’s spine. “Mine,” he whispered, hoping John hadn’t fallen asleep yet so his boy would hear the admission and know he would never be left alone again.   

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the chapter! If you liked what you read, come check me out on Tumblr http://nightfall24.tumblr.com/ to see the latest updates on my stories.


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